Hotspur & Steelsheen
by Medea Smyke
Summary: Following the aftermath of the Battle of Five Armies, a trip to Lossarnach takes a nasty turn for Prince Thengel. He must rely on the hospitality of the young mistress of Imloth Melui. Even under the blossoming trees of that fabled valley, life takes a turn from the idyllic. Where greedy relatives fail, can Morwen and Thengel discover strength in friendship & perhaps more?
1. Death in the family

March 2942

The messenger rode full tilt up the grass-carpeted road, his horse lathered and snorting. It was the herald out of Arnach, on an errand of grave importance. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion, he raced northward, sweat pouring down his face, soaking his clothes and hair. He changed mounts at a farm along the South Road to lend him speed before he plunged into the fabled valley of Imloth Melui.

He would not rest until his message had been carried from one end of the fief to the other. There were precious few settlements in Lossarnach, separated by many hedges, but he had seen each one before the day had ended - clattering over cobbled squares, standing on fountains, crying from the steps of their weathered houses. Now it promised to be day again. The sun had not yet touched the valley floor though the sky had turned to gray in the east. The deadly east.

The messenger leaned into the last leg of his journey. He kicked the gelding's sides and loosed the reins, giving the horse its head. The hollow tattoo of hooves on the loam kept his heart going. He would not fall out of the saddle from exhaustion or for any other reason. He would deliver his message.

An ancient stone pile under a thatch roof appeared beneath the colossal silver-green trees at the end of the greenway. Bar-en-Ferin, at last. Dogs raced out to meet the rider. The horse reared in nervous energy. He halloo'd and hollered until one-by-one faces appeared at the leaded windows, on the threshold, in the yard. He found the silver-eyed girl with the blue-black hair framed by her household beneath the arched lintel, the daughter of kings over the sea and the lords of flowering vales. The mistress of Imloth Melui, Hirwen's daughter.

"Hardang has fallen," he cried between gasps. "The Lord of Lossarnach is dead!"

* * *

Thanks to Lialathuveril and Gythja for supplying feedback! For those of you worried about starting a story that is still "in progress" - I have already finished the complete rough draft. No fear! Thanks for reading.


	2. Wanderlust

Hotspur and Steelsheen Ch. 2: Wanderlust and Rainstorms

"_Where the blood of a husband silences wars for the girl who arises to meet him." John Mark McMillan _

April 2942

Five riders stopped along the South Road that spilled out into the wide vale of Lossarnach in order to observe a curiosity, a road that split off from the beaten track. It disappeared into a shield of trees before the mouth of a valley tucked into the nape of the White Mountains. The arm of snowy peaks stretching east, ending in the pile of Mindoluin chiseled out by ancient masons to form Minas Tirith. The other arm tumbled south toward the Anduin.

Before them, under soaring beech trees, ran the greenway, a carpeted road of moss, flowers, and short grasses. It was not, of course, _the _Greenway which eventually connected to the Great West Road and fallen into disrepair. But then, roads had a way of sharing names.

One rider split off from his companions to ride a few paces down the lane. He stopped and removed his winged helm which had grown uncomfortably warm under the scrutiny of the rising sun, revealing startled, golden hair, cropped in the fashion of men who served Ecthelion, He'd banished the cloak of Ithilien green to his saddle bag just after they passed through the Rammas Echor and soon regretted the leather hauberk over his wool tunic, as well.

The shadowy forest looked inviting and cool. He felt something like wanderlust come over him. A novelty after the regimented lifestyle of one who ranged the eastern borders.

"Gladhon." The rider with the madcap hair gestured for another to trot up beside him along the narrow road. Gladhon guided the party as the one native of that fief and who stood out from his companions by his characteristic dark hair and eyes.

"Yes, my lord Thengel?"

"I have half a mind to see what lies that way," said Thengel. "How far would it take us out of our course to Garth Arnach?"

"The road runs west before it curves north into the crook between the mountain ranges. It ends in the valley of Imloth Melui. It leads directly out of our way, but it is worth seeing. The valley is the jewel of Lossarnach, or so we say. It's trees alone—"

"We have seen many trees, young Gladhon," the rider known as Cenhelm, said dryly. His braided gray and gold beard seemed to twitch with disapproval.

"Not these trees," Gladhon, replied confidently. "We've arrived at the best time of year. _Lossemeren_. The festival of blossoms."

At the back, another rider grunted. Guthere was a deep-chested, stocky man with red-gold hair that flowed from his face and head to cover him like a second armor. "Blossoms are all very well, but what about the hunting? We didn't come to pick flowers - or is that all the men do in this fief?"

Gladhon's face reddened as he scowled at the ribbing. He started to retort.

"Peace," said Lord Thengel, raising a placating hand. "I promised some sport, but let us not forget the first reason for our coming."

Guthere muttered into his beard.

Gladhon cleared his throat. "To answer our worthy Guthere's question, the deer are more plentiful than the farmers would like and the valley is full of other game. Foxes, pheasants, and rabbits. Once in a while the boars will come down from the mountain in the winter. We may still catch one yet."

"I wouldn't mind taking down a boar," said the last rider, Thurstan. He most resembled his master, though he chose to shave his beard and his scalp completely rather than cut it in the manner of the men of Gondor. Curious, twisted animals were inscribed in faded black ink on either side of his neck. He led the packhorse with their gear.

Lord Thengel shook his head. "I wouldn't attempt a boar unless we were twice as many as we are."

"I advise we keep to the South Road and arrive as speedily as may be at Lord Hardang's hall. We can hunt deer as often as we choose in Ithilien, my prince," Cenhelm pointed out.

He peered suspiciously into the valley. He did not like forests, as a rule, and a forest hedged in by high hills - the worst. They made it difficult to fulfill his oath as leader of the prince's honor guard to keep Rohan's heir alive and intact. A hunting expedition into unknown territory had not been his idea of a relaxing leave after ranging through orc-riddled Ithilien. That region was a nightmare, Lossarnach an irritation.

"Besides, the inhabitants may not know your name," he muttered darkly. "Can they be trusted?"

The prince stared upward as if he had seen a bizarre bird fly past. "This is Gondor, not Harad. Besides, there cannot be many inhabitants here," Thengel observed with amusement. "They certainly don't use the road."

"Very few live in that valley, my lord, though the road is used often enough by carts going back and forth with goods to Arnach and Minas Tirith. They green the road on purpose. There is a scattering of small settlements along the streams, mostly family-sized herb farms and bee yards. There is one large plantation renowned for its orchards. It is retained by Lady Morwen, daughter of Lord Randir. He was kin to Prince Angelemir of Dol Amroth."

"I know the prince's son," replied Thengel. "Adrahil lives in Minas Tirith for the time, does he not?"

Gladhon nodded. "I have heard that Prince Adrahil is coming with his new bride for the feast hosted in the great house, Bar-en-Ferin."

"Is that place nearby?" asked Cenhelm.

"It is a retired plantation deep in the valley between the streams that tribute the Erui."

"Who is this Lady Morwen?" asked Thengel. "Her name sounds familiar."

"She was Lord Hardang's cousin, somewhat removed on her mother's side. They share their great grandfather, Lord Halgemir. Hardang is the grandson of Halgemir's heir, Lord Hathol; the Lady Morwen descends from Halgemir's second son, Hador."

"It's about as comprehensible as any Rohirric genealogy," Thengel replied dryly. "Is she a free landholder?"

"No, she paid rents to Lord Hardang for the land."

"So we would not be trespassing if we journeyed into the valley?" asked Cenhelm doubtfully.

"No."

Thengel patted his mount's neck. "How much longer to Hardang's hall, Gladhon?"

"Another day's ride, lord."

"And the deer are considered a nuisance, you say?"

"Oh, yes. There is an expression in these parts that the deer are to Lossarnach as the orcs are to Ithilien." Gladhon frowned. "Of course, the refugees who came here from Ithilien don't find it amusing."

The comparison was tasteless, but to a farmer whose livelihood fell under constant threat of consumption it probably seemed apt. Lord Thengel considered for a moment a way to serve all the interests within the company. In the end, he had to sacrifice Cenhelm's.

"Gentlemen. What if we took a detour to lend a hand against this domestic strife?" he asked with a barely concealed grin. "We could make a gift of a haunch of venison to our host. A house in mourning might remember us better if we bring something to spread on their table."

All but Cenhelm answered agreeably.

"Then let us hunt." He reached widely to clap Cenhelm on the shoulder. "Relax, my friend. What could possibly happen?"

Cenhelm winced. He glanced grudgingly at the serene sky and light clouds scudding across it like swans on a pond. "It's an easterly wind."

Thengel laughed. "It's always an easterly wind to you. Gladhon, lead on."

...

Evening spread its cloak early over the valley. In a long, leaning house in the woods, a hearth fire danced shadows around the kitchen like a puppet master. When the kettle whistled on the hob, it took a moment for the two women seated at the table to notice it wasn't the sound of wind shrilling beneath the eaves. The housekeeper, iron-haired and slim as a gimlet, rose to pour boiling water into an old clay teapot for steeping. Fragrant, mint-scented steam issued from the spout to mingle in the kitchen with the smell of flour and rain.

"I'll tell you what," said the housekeeper to her friend, the cook, as she sat down again, "it's very glad I am to sit in doors at the kitchen table right about now. This house is groaning and shaking enough for these old bones of mine. Storm came up quickly tonight."

The fire sizzled in agreement as raindrops dribbled down the chimney.

"I pity any folk on the road and river without warning. The weather's that changeable." The cook puffed a frizzled strand of muddy hair away from her face that had slipped from its thick plait. "It caught my boy Gundor out in the back acres. He said a number of branches were already down."

"It's an ill wind that comes from the east," her friend replied sagely.

The housekeeper poured out the tea for them both. The warmth seeping from their mugs into their fingers, comfort in the wet spring night. The wind moaned between the house and the outbuildings, carrying with it the sound of the trees raking their branches together.

"I love a good spring storm, though. Nothing says winter's finally gone to bed like a spat of lightning and thunder." The cook tested the tea with her small finger, then shook off the few drops clinging to her skin. "We need the rain. Should help the buds along."

The housekeeper nodded. "Puts green back in the valley." Then her expression pinched. "The lady's not best pleased about her trees though."

The cook and the housekeeper shared a knowing glance.

"As if Lady Morwen could change the weather, though she's used enough to getting her way around here." The cook shrugged. "Anyway, let's hope that the wind leaves a few blossoms up for the festival. She's set on everything going beautifully."

"It's fitting if it doesn't - and I'm just saying," The housekeeper muttered with a sharp look out the south window. "What with Halmir and his brother coming up from Arnach when they ought to stay put. If Lord Hardang's widow won't come, I don't see why his brothers should. It'll be that cheerless."

The cook harrumphed her agreement then sipped her tea. "We could do with more cheer after the year we've had. First Lord Randir, then Lord Hardang. Why did Hardang want to go to Ithilien himself? He might have sent his brothers." She shuddered at evil memories.

The housekeeper grunted. "They may yet. Captain Ecthelion's that set on building his army."

"Some days I'd give my right arm to see those woods again - but it's a lesson to anyone who's thinking of leaving Lossarnach where it's sensible and safe."

Both the women jumped when thunder cracked over the house, sendings its echoes deep into the valley. They listened to its fading rumble like the sound of a dragon falling to sleep.

"Safe enough," said the housekeeper, then she gave the cook a shrewd look. "Did you do as I asked this morning?"

"See for yourself." The cook nudged her chin toward the fire hissing in the hearth.

The housekeeper squinted. "I don't see anything but fire and ashes."

The cook gave her a satisfied smile. "Well, then I was thorough, wasn't I?" she said. "Didn't you tell the lady that her black handkerchief fell in the fire?"

"I did." The housekeeper nodded conspiratorially. "I didn't tell her which fire."

The cook poured out the last of the tea, then asked, "What else did you tell her?"

"What? When she asked about the dress we dyed last summer for Lord Randir funeral?" The housekeeper sniffed. "Well, she caught it in the wagon wheel last harvest, didn't she? Ruined a whole panel. I cut up the rest for quilting."

"Her stockings we dyed with the dress?"

"Run through with holes after she went for blackberries."

The cook clucked her tongue. "I keep telling her to send Ioneth for a change. That girl could use a long walk - up hill both ways if possible," she muttered. "What else?"

"Oh, she wanted to know about that scarf Lord Randir brought her from Minas Tirith back when Lady Hirwen passed. I felt too badly about that one to hurt it, so I sent it down to old Midhel for dyeing. It was looking rusty after so many washes." She frowned. "Midhel probably won't have it back before summer's out, she's that slow these days."

"Is there anything left for mourning we haven't thought of?" asked cook. She tried to picture the contents of the linen cupboards.

"Naught but her own black hair."

The cook nodded in satisfaction. "It's been too long, as I said. Was Lady Morwen upset?"

The housekeeper blinked. "Upset? No, but I think she's on to us. Was sort of snippy about it only being a month since Lord Hardang fell."

The cook straightened up in her chair like she was ready to spring. "Well a month is all the folk down in Arnach gave before they put their weeds away back when our master passed - and he was Hardang's uncle by marriage. That's what your sister down at the garth told us."

"And so I told Lady Morwen," said the housekeeper, worry lines webbing her face. "But she said Randir wasn't the Lord of Lossarnach.

The cook brooded over her tea. "Well, and there's the question. Who is the Lord of Lossarnach?"

They fell into uncertain silence. Outside, the clouds hung their head over the valley walls, listening to the wind blow.

* * *

Many thanks to Lia and Gythja for feedback! And thank you for leaving a review.

Characters:

Adrahil: Son of Angelemir, Prince of Dol Amroth, Morwen's distant cousin

Angelimir: Ruling prince of Dol Amroth, a relative of Morwen's

Cenhelm: An overcareful Rohirric soldier, the captain of Thengel's honor guard.

Ecthelion: Captain of the Steward's armies, son of Steward Turgon

Gildis: Morwen's housekeeper

Gladhon: Gondorian soldier and guide, native to Lossarnach

Gundor: Morwen's farmhand, son of Hareth the cook, the scapegoat

Guthere: A Rohirric soldier, member of Thengel's Honor Guard

Hador: Morwen's grandfather, the useless brother of Hathol, son of Halgemir

Halgemir: Morwen's ancestor, an earlier Lord of Lossarnach

Halmir: Lord Hardang's useless brother

Hardang: Recently deceased lord of Lossarnach

Hareth: Morwen's cook

Hundor: Lord Hardang's other useless brother

Hathol: Lord of Lossarnach, son of Halgemir, grandfather of Hardang

Ioneth: Morwen's plump maidservant

Morwen: Heroine. The mistress of an orchard in Imloth Melui

Thengel: Hero. Banished prince of Rohan

Thurstan: A rohirric soldier, member of Thengel's Honor Guard


	3. Wind-Throwed

Hotspur &amp; Steelsheen Ch. 3 – Wind-Throwed

The storm descended upon Thengel and his men in a blink. When securing a tent or any kind of shelter proved fruitless, the riders were forced to return eastward toward the greenway, with the cold wind in their faces. They had already traveled deep into the wooded valley before the storm suddenly kicked up, stirring up the canopy of new spring leaves. Sheets of rain began to fall so hard it hurt when the drops fell on exposed skin. Gladhon suggested in a series of shouts that they find one of the two streams rather than the road, as the folk of Imloth Melui were more likely to live on the water.

He had been right. Despite the noise of the storm, they heard the stream tumbling down from the valley wall shortly before they saw the first light of a homestead. A hermitage, from the look of the squat, hive-shaped stone cottage built agains the bank.

Gladhon banged on the wooden door and a head popped out after a short wait. It was a raggedy, salt-and-peppery head with eyes set back deep into the skull. The eyes surveyed the group with some surprise, lingering on Thengel before the hermit finally took note of the weather condition. A goat's head appeared through the door and bleated at them.

"Caught in the storm, eh?" His voice cracked. "Not a nice one to be out in, either."

"We would be much obliged if you'd share your shelter," Gladhon spoke for the group.

"If you don't mind the goats," the hermit replied.

They were relieved to find any shelter at all, even if it meant bunking with the hermit and his goats.

He sniffed, then told them where they could find a lean-to in a stand of trees behind the hut for their horses to shelter. They stabled the horses, took their belongings, then made their way back to the hut. Once inside, they hunched under the domed ceiling and dripped on the family of goats piled inside. The stink of them made Thengel's eyes water, which was a blessing in disguise as it blurred his vision. Their host, they discovered, was a nudist. An interesting fact that had been hidden by the door.

Thengel and his men spent the night packed into the hermitage, despite his misgivings. The space would have been confining for one man, let alone six. Also, Teitharion, as the man was called, made Thengel uncomfortable. When Thengel introduced himself, the man said he already knew who he was. Then there was the fact that Teitharion was an artist, the sort with those half-baked, idiosyncratic eyes that moved as if they were seeing two worlds overlapped against one another. He kept staring off at things that Thengel couldn't see.

Then there were the questions. For instance, "Aren't you expected in Minas Tirith this time of year?" Teitherion had given him a very knowing look.

Thengel's men stiffened around him at the mention of Mundburg. Even the goats seemed aware that their master was treading into forbidden pastures.

Thengel's expression hardened.

Teitharion went on, undisturbed by what he saw. "Just how old are you now?"

"Older," Thengel replied, voice hard as nails.

Teitharion nodded sagely. "I remember when you first rode into the city," he mused. "A moving spectacle, completely pathetic. I painted your picture, a boy with hair grown half-way down his back like a girl's, riding a horse most Gondorian men couldn't handle. The stuff histories are made of." His hand wavered in the air. "I titled it, _The Wayward Son in Exile. _I tried selling it with all my other paintings when I retired from public life. Nobody wanted it. Had to donate the thing to the Archives - much to the amusement of my rivals." He spat.

Thengel grinned dangerously, a telltale sign that he had reached the end of his patience. The expression had caused better men than Teitharion to soil themselves, but the artist missed it completely when he bent down to nuzzle one of his goats. Thengel had to hand it to Teitharion. He had a knack for knowing exactly how to make a group of Rohirric warriors extremely ill-at-ease. Thengel's presence in Gondor, though far from classified information, remained a taboo subject among the revolving door of Rohirric body guards sent to Gondor over the years. The atmosphere in the hermitage felt taut as a bowstring and the past was a poisoned dart. Pluck at the string and someone was bound to get hurt.

Moreover, it unsettled Thengel to discover that deep in the wooded valley of Imloth Melui, a place he had never been, a perfect stranger had memories of the day which had seemed like a threshold to Thengel. Not even Cenhelm could claim as much. The men his uncle had sent with that boy - Thengel had a difficult time thinking of himself as that youthful heir of Fengel King - had long since returned to Rohan. It seemed anymore that only Thengel's foster father and brother ever recollected Thengel before he had decided he needed to cut his hair in the same style as Ecthelion's and wear the same clothes. He felt more comfortable in the foil of Ecthelion's lieutenant than in the skin of the prince of Rohan.

Thengel forced the muscles in his face to relax as he willed his temper to recede. In twenty years he had learned something about containing it, but it had always been swift and strong like the storm that had caught them that evening.

The conversation died out with the mention of Minas Tirith and his men were pulling their cloaks over their shoulders to sleep slumped against the curved walls of the hut. Thengel unrolled his own cloak and pulled the hood over his head, but sleep did not come right away. The goats were fidgety and Teitherion mumbled the names of his rivals in his sleep. At least, Thengel thought they were the rivals. They might have been the names of his goats.

They rose before dawn to discover that the horses were missing and the rickety lean-to where they had been stabled utterly collapsed under the storm.

"Well?" said Cenhelm over the sound of the wind. It hadn't died down, even if the rain stopped and the clouds dispersed. It reminded Thengel of Cenhelm's warning from the day before.

"Teach me to follow a whim," Thengel replied bitterly. They ought to have ridden straight to Garth Arnach. "Grab your gear, gentlemen. We're hunting horses this morning."

Thengel put Thurstan and Guthere in the lead, as their tracking skills were superior. After the initial confusion old and new tracks along the bank, Guthere picked out that the freshest trail of hooves in the soft earth led south. Eventually it left the river bank, for the woods. They followed this for several miles when the trail showed signs that at least one of the horses had veered away from the others, Guthere went on his own to see if it was a dud trail or not.

While they waited for him to return, Thengel crouched with his back against a tree trunk and took the opportunity to pass around one of their water skins. He murmured his thanks that they had their saddlebags, even if it meant carrying them as the heat of the day increased with the rising sun. The other blessing was the strong wind that blew coolly out of the east, the forest full with the sound of its rushing and the bony creaking of limbs. Thengel could feel the tree rocking against his back as it rocked the canopy above, scattering the light that filtered down through the waving leaves. He watched the patterns change on the forest floor, mesmerized until Cenhelm interrupted his revery after the water had gone around several times and they had eaten a mouthful of bread.

"Guthere ought to be back by now to report," Cenhelm pointed out impatiently "It's nearly noon. Béma only knows how far the horses have gone by now."

Cenhelm spoke correctly, as always. A feeling of unease settled over their band. They waited for the prince to command them. Reluctant to split the group any more, he decided they all would follow the trail in the direction Guthere had gone in hopes that they might meet him coming back.

They fanned out beneath the trees wherever the heavy undergrowth would allow, though keeping one another within the line of sight in case Guthere or any of the horses should show themselves. Thengel's unease turned to dread when they had walked nearly a mile. Guthere shouldn't have come this far.

"Prince Thengel - over here!" he heard Thurstan cry. Gladhon and Cenhelm rushed with Thengel toward their companion's voice.

Thurstan kneeled beside a fallen tree near the roots, which hung in dirty tangles. The dirt around it looked loose and recently disturbed. Around them, the other trees, all tall and wide with age, leaned ominously in the wind. Below Thurstan, Guthere lay unconscious and in a bad state, half obscured by branches which had trapped him beneath the trunk of the old beech tree.

"I can't get him out," Thurstan told him. "Help me lift the tree away."

It took some doing to lift the branches enough to pull Guthere out from under them. The branches that had trapped him had also saved his life, keeping the full weight of the trunk from crushing him, skull, neck, and spine. They tried waking Guthere, but then they discovered something that made all of their hearts sink into their guts. Barely visible through Guthere's thick, red hair, a gash arced just above his left ear, revealing cracked bone. The branch had broken his skull.

Although bloody, the wound seemed to have congealed. Odd, as head wounds bled profusely. Guthere's face looked swollen and deathly gray. There were cuts on his face and neck, but the leather hauberk had protected his chest from scrapes.

"Do we have anything to bind the wound?" Thurstan asked.

"Nothing but dirty clothes."

"Binding won't be much help for a cracked skull that's not bleeding," said Cenhelm, even as he cut a sleeve from the spare tunic in his saddlebag. "He needs a healer."

"We shouldn't move him like this."

"We can't leave him here," Thengel pointed out. "It'll take twice as long if we find a healer and have to bring him back. If our ill-luck holds, we'd most likely get lost trying to find our way here again."

"How will we carry him?" Thurstan asked. "Guthere's not exactly a bucket of oats."

Cenhelm frowned deeply. "And where is there to go? Back to the hermit's hut? The bad air would kill him if the head wound did not."

"No," said Thengel. "Gladhon, you're our guide. What do you say?"

Gladhon considered a moment, looking for all the world that he wished someone else had been guide. "If we make a litter, we can carry him to Bar-en-Ferin," he said eventually. "It is the closest settlement, I deem."

So, they assembled a makeshift litter for Guthere out of sturdy, young branches run through several tunics to hold them together and bear the man's weight. Like slaves carrying a Harad king through the marketplaces, or pallbearers, they carried Guthere's litter out of the woods toward the greenway. Picking out a path through the bracken proved difficult and Guthere was not a lightweight, but he made no sound and they were too worried to complain about the difficulty.

Their spirits rose a mite when at last they saw a stone wall through the trees, heralding a settlement. Over the top of the wall, they saw clouds of white and pink. The crowns of fruit trees in blossom.

Gladhon seemed doubly encouraged by the sight. "We've reached the orchard. Good. The house isn't far."

"Whose house?" Thengel asked.

"Lady Morwen's."

Thengel had a sudden misgiving. Would a lady help a group of foreign soldiers? Would she appreciate them carrying a bloodied man into her home? Gondorian women were not especially sturdy, he thought. At least, not the ones he knew in Minas Tirith. But then, what choice did they have? Guthere would die without aid.

They followed the road under a colonnade of beech trees before Gladhon led them down a narrower path that parted an arbor of birches. They were all relieved when they saw the eaves of a house peeking out through the canopy of leaves.

The woodlot ended in a grassy yard. They were near the house and beyond it were several outbuildings, a barn and smaller sheds. A host of mottled dogs raced toward them, making a racket. Thengel and Gladhon had to kick them back.

A plump, dark-haired girl appeared around the opposite corner of the house carrying a large basket of garden stuff. She yelled at the dogs to quit yawping at squirrels before she saw the strangers who had attracted them. The basket dropped when she saw their gory cargo. Bundles of greens spilled out at her feet. The color bled from her cheeks and her eyes were large with panic. She looked like she might scream.

"Peace, we are friends," said Gladhon hurriedly. "Our companion is injured. We need a healer."

The girl seemed at a loss for words, simply gaped at the straw-haired men. The dogs were silent but tense, feeding on her paralysis.

"What is your name?" Thengel asked with exaggerated calm. He admitted they were probably a fright to look at, between their foreign looks and the mess Guthere was in. When working with frightened new recruits in Ithilien, he discovered it helped to communicate with them if they started with something familiar, facts they knew by rote such as their names.

"Ioneth," she said automatically.

"Ioneth," he continued, "We need to tend this man's wounds. Can you take us inside?"

The sound of her name, though strange on his tongue, seemed to pull her out of her stupor somewhat. The girl nodded dumbly, even if she couldn't manage words. After picking up her basket, she led them in through large arched doors into a hall. It was a spacious, long room built from heavy beams and plaster that had been patched over and painted many times. Thengel could see a stair that led up into the second story, a wider door that led, perhaps, to the kitchens, and a hearth behind scattered furniture.

A stately old woman met them there, attracted by the sound of the door. She carried a bundle of rich fabric in her arms, half lifted as if to display it. Thengel could tell from her expression that she expected someone else, but after she took one look at the men, their litter, and the pale Ioneth, she rearranged her expectations and seemed to understand what to do. Thengel muttered a prayer of thanks to Béma for at least one level head in the place.

"I'm sorry - I found them in the yard and —" Ioneth stammered as the iron-haired woman pulled her out of the way of the litter so that the men could get in through the doors.

The old woman ignored her and spoke directly to Thengel and his men. "Set him over there," she said, directing them to a long, heavy wooden table. She cleared off candles, a jug of flowers, as well as the embroidered runner that they rested on, to make room for Guthere's body.

They laid the bloodied Guthere on the table and carefully withdrew the litter from under him. Cenhelm helped Thurstan disassemble the branches from their tunics.

"What happened here?" the old woman asked. "A hunting accident?"

Gladhon answered, "We were caught in the storm last night. This morning we found our companion struck down by a fallen tree in the northern end of the valley."

"Wind-throwed," the old woman muttered knowingly. "It's solid wood that way. Too many old trees." Then she addressed the girl. "Gundor's in the kitchen finishing his lunch. Tell him to fetch Nanneth immediately. Ask Hareth for something to use for bandages."

Ioneth seemed happy for an excuse to leave the room. She disappeared in a trice through the passage beside the hearth.

"Nanneth is our healer," the woman explained. "She trained under the masters in the House of Healing years ago. She may know what to do."

"Thank you," said Thengel. He took her hand and bowed over it. "I am Lord Thengel and these are my men, Gladhon, Cenhelm, and Thurstan. This injured man is Guthere. You must be Lady Morwen."

The old woman blinked, then turned beet red. "Goodness gracious," she said.

Thengel shot a glance at Gladhon, then back at the woman. "I was told this is Lady Morwen's dwelling."

"It is." Even the woman's ears were bright with color. "Forgive me - that is - I am not Lady Morwen, but her servant, Gildis. My lady is not here."

It was Thengel's turn to blink stupidly. She took back her hand. Not Lady Morwen? He had been betrayed by his own expectations and her self-possession and easy command. It was a simple mistake, but the woman's obvious distress and embarrassment at being mistaken for her mistress was palpable.

"Will she arrive soon?" Gladhon asked. "I'm afraid we are trespassing on her hospitality."

Gildis nodded stiffly, her color still high. "I expected her back for the noon meal. She is in the orchard with our overseer."

So they had likely passed Lady Morwen on their way to the house. Thengel preferred that she had been here to invite them in herself. The lady would receive an unpleasant surprise. Still, he thought, she could hardly refuse to help.

A gawking boy of perhaps fifteen passed through the hall to have a look at Guthere. Thengel noticed Gildis give him a sharp look. The boy shrugged and ran out the door.

"Who was that?" Thengel asked.

"Gundor," she answered with a waspish tone. "He probably wanted to know how fast he needed to run."

Thengel frowned. "How long will it take to fetch the healer?"

"Nanneth does not live far, but she is old. Excuse me." Gildis left them to draw their own conclusions, disappearing through the same doors the girl had.

The men exchanged grim looks once they were alone. Thengel laid his hand on Guthere's heavy chest. It barely moved. Without a word, Cenhelm helped Thengel loosen the hauberk to ease the restriction on the man's torso.

"What now?" Gladhon asked.

"There's little we can do except make him comfortable and clean him up," Cenhelm told them.

They stood there feeling useless and anxious about their companion. For men used to action, waiting would always be the worst. But one thing could be done, even if it wouldn't benefit Guthere directly.

"We still need to find the horses. Gladhon, Thurstan, you go. Take what bread and water remains. Cenhelm and I will look after Guthere."

They bowed and retreated from the hall, leaving Cenhelm and Thengel alone with the prone body of their friend.

"Marshal Oswin will not be pleased one of his riders fell on a hunting lark," Cenhelm murmured as Thengel inspected the wound beneath the bit of sleeve they'd torn from a tunic.

"My uncle is rarely pleased with anything I do," Thengel replied bitterly. "But he won't be nearly as unforgiving as I will be if Guthere doesn't pull through."

Cenhelm gave him a strange look which Thengel did not see. "Your uncle's one fault is that he is more forgiving than you realize."

Gildis returned then, bringing clean linen when Ioneth did not reappear. Others of the household were starting to gather out of curiosity. Thengel ignored them, concentrating on his man. Cenhelm cut the sheet into strips with his knife. A bowl of water also appeared, which they used to clean up some of the caked mud and grit.

Thengel gently pressed a wet rag into the gash above Guthere's ear where the blood had congealed. The rag came away red and brown from blood and dirt. He dipped the rag in the bowl and the water turned a murky pink. The gash began to bleed sluggishly. Cenhelm pressed a fresh rag over it.

"We'll reopen all the cuts if we keep this up," Cenhelm observed. "He's already white from loss of blood."

"The dirt has to be cleaned away," Thengel countered.

Their discussion was interrupted by the scrape-and-chink of the iron door latch as it rose and fell, followed by the groan of hinges. Gildis turned expectantly toward the sound. The door swung open and a girl appeared under the arch. Tall, and fair, and gray-eyed. There were pink petals caught in the chaos of her windswept hair that lay around her shoulders like a mantle. When her eyes swept the room and met Thengel's, his breath hitched in his throat.

Gildis stepped forward. "Oh, Lady Morwen. Thank goodness you're back!"

* * *

AN: Sorry if this chapter was a bit rough! Time has not been on my side of late.

Characters:

Adrahil: Son of Angelemir, Prince of Dol Amroth, Morwen's distant cousin

Angelemir: Ruling prince of Dol Amroth, a relative of Morwen's

Cenhelm: An overcareful Rohirric soldier, the captain of Thengel's honor guard.

Ecthelion: Captain of the Steward's armies, son of Steward Turgon

Gildis: Morwen's housekeeper

Gladhon: Gondorian soldier and guide, native to Lossarnach

Gundor: Morwen's farmhand, son of Hareth the cook, the scapegoat

Guthere: A Rohirric soldier, member of Thengel's Honor Guard

Hador: Morwen's grandfather, the useless brother of Hathol, son of Halgemir

Halgemir: Morwen's ancestor, an earlier Lord of Lossarnach

Halmir: Lord Hardang's useless brother

Hardang: Recently deceased lord of Lossarnach

Hareth: Morwen's cook

Hundor: Lord Hardang's other useless brother

Hathol: Lord of Lossarnach, son of Halgemir, grandfather of Hardang

Ioneth: Morwen's plump maidservant

Morwen: Heroine. The mistress of an orchard in Imloth Melui

Teithalion: An eccentric artist/hermit

Thengel: Hero. Banished prince of Rohan

Thurstan: A rohirric soldier, member of Thengel's Honor Guard


	4. Headbroke

A breeze followed the girl through the open door, billowing her skirts and hair out ahead of her. Her boots fell like drum beats over the flagstone floor. The members of the household seemed to bend around her, waiting. She nodded to Gildis by way of greeting as she swept past. Petals drifted to the floor in her wake.

Cenhelm and Thengel exchanged matching looks of surprise. This was the lady of the house? Thengel combed his memory and realized Gladhon had never described the lady of Bar-en-Ferin at all. Thengel merely assumed that a woman who ran her own household would naturally be more advanced in years. A wealthy widow, perhaps, or an old maid with an unfortunate face. This child-woman didn't meet any of those expectations.

A gaunt man shadowed Lady Morwen. He seemed to be made of gristle and deep crags. Thengel wondered briefly if they were father and daughter before dismissing it. Both had blue-black hair (he even sported blossoms too) and wore simple linen garments, not especially clean. Yet, the scarecrow figure deferred to the young woman, at least in posture.

The lady's eyes fixed on Guthere after they scanned the room, wondering perhaps who the strangers were with their straw-colored hair and what had they left on the table? If the sight startled her, she did not show it. Thengel could feel the loss of her attention as a weight falling from his shoulders. Her dress hem brushed Thengel's boots as she passed him by with as much consideration as one might have for a fence post. The scarecrow kept his distance, but Thengel felt the fine hairs on his arms and neck prickle under the other man's scrutiny.

"Stars," she breathed, taking in the gore. "What happened?" Her voice sounded young, but weighted with authority. When the stink of blood and body odor hit her, she pressed the back of her hand against her nose. Her hands were delicate and smooth, but Thengel noticed dirt beneath the nails.

Gildis stepped forward. "Your pardon, Lady Morwen. These men were in sore need of help. I let them in."

Gildis, he noticed, wouldn't quite meet Thengel's eye when she explained their presence to Lady Morwen. Perhaps her nerves still smarted from their earlier misunderstanding. He thought he understood her shock better now.

The lady's scarecrow surveyed the two strangers while Guthere's injuries absorbed Lady Morwen's attention. The man seemed uncertain of which of the strangers deferred to the other so he knew who to address. Cenhelm boasted fifteen more summers than Thengel and bore himself with the proud gravity typical of their people. He dressed like any other man in Riddermark, coarse wool tunic and leather riding trousers and hauberk. Thengel bore the insignia of Captain Ecthelion's men on his hauberk over the fine wool tunic he had received from Turgon in anticipation of his name day. The scarecrow studied the insignia.

"We do not often meet strangers in this valley or those from distant lands," the scarecrow observed, his suspicion of strangers evident in his deep-set eyes. "What purpose brought you to Imloth Melui?"

Thengel felt the cool interest of Lady Morwen's eyes fall on him again. He decided to address her rather than her servant.

"My lady, I led a hunting party deep into the valley yesterday. The wind threw down a rotting tree in our companion's path this morning. He was not fortunate enough to escape its heavy branches."

"Unfortunate fellow," Lady Morwen remarked. She leaned over the prostrated body, examining the bloody head, gently lifting the soaked bandage just above his ear. The inflamed skin distorted Guthere's features and she grimaced.

"He lives?" she asked with wonder.

"Barely, my lady," Thengel told her. "He breathes but we cannot wake him."

Lady Morwen glanced up at Thengel. "I think it would not be a kindness to wake him now, if you could. This wound is swelling badly. Do you see?"

The skin on Guthere's scalp and around the cut exposing the skull looked tight and painful in the patches Thengel could see through his thick hair. His cheek and jaw looked exaggerated and misshapen by the swelling. A deep, purple bruise encircled his eye.

"What is his name?" Lady Morwen asked.

"Guthere," Cenhelm answered.

"Guthere," she said slowly. "A strange name. What has been done for him?" She turned toward the iron-haired housekeeper. "Gildis?"

The old woman stepped forward. "I sent Gundor to fetch Nanneth, my lady."

The scarecrow snorted. The lady gave him a sharp glance with her glacial eyes in what seemed to be a warning. Thengel felt ire swell in his chest like an explosion. He didn't understand the meaning behind the scarecrow's reaction to Gildis's news and he didn't like it. If they could joke while his friend slowly suffocated, they'd have Thengel to reckon with.

"Is something amusing?" he asked with a calm that belied his deteriorating mood. "This woman, Nanneth, she is a healer?"

"Of course," Lady Morwen said. "Ignore Beldir. He was out of humor with Gundor this morning."

The scarecrow, Beldir, did not challenge her explanation but moved a few steps away from the table. His eyes were ever on Thengel and Cenhelm as if waiting for trouble. Thengel didn't thank him for it, but understood how it might be for a household set deep in a valley with only the vigilance of a few to keep order and safety at hand. After all, with his men scattered or injured, Thengel was hardly in a position to vocalize his annoyance.

Lady Morwen glanced down at the dirty water in the bowl beside Cenhelm. "Gildis, bring hot water. Take this bowl away."

"Hareth is boiling a pot now," said Gildis as she took the bowl.

"And Gildis-" Lady Morwen called before the woman disappeared. "Bring something for these men to drink as well."

Cenhelm glanced at Lady Morwen gratefully. Neither Thengel nor his guard had realized their own thirst until that moment. The servant girl, pink-faced Ioneth, appeared again with an earthenware jug of cider and mugs after Gildis disappeared. Thengel thought her hands must be shaking terribly, judging by the amount of liquid sloshing in the jug. When he offered to help her, she squeaked and almost dropped everything. Thengel and Cenhelm got out of her way then and didn't approach the cider until the girl ran off to blush in a corner until Gildis wanted her again.

Thengel nodded to Cenhelm to allow the lady to take their places at Guthere's side while they accepted the offered refreshment. He watched Lady Morwen inspect the other wounds staunched by the cloth. Oblivious to the beautiful woman standing over him, Guthere's deep chest heaved with effort, but only seemed to manage shallow intakes of air and wheezing exhales that suggested little relief.

Touching Guthere's hand, Lady Morwen quickly snatched it away. "He is cold."

She had only to point to a fleece blanket folded over the back of a careworn armchair by the hearth and Ioneth fetched it. She draped it over the rider's legs and torso, then turned to remove Guthere's filthy boots. Thengel stopped her then.

"No," he said, reaching out to grasp her hands before she could so much as untie a lace. "They are dirty and not fit for a lady to touch," he said when she glanced up at him in surprise, then back down at her hands enveloped in his. He jerked his chin at Cenhelm to remove the boots.

Lady Morwen withdrew her hands from his as if they were made of gold and his were covered in bear grease. She stared at him, her brow rising imperiously.

"And who are you?" she finally asked.

"Forgive me." He inclined his head. "I am called Thengel, Prince of Rohan, first lieutenant under Ecthelion. These are my men. Guthere, on the table, and Cenhelm, the leader of my guard."

He waited for the usual reaction whenever he dropped his title on a new acquaintance. The scarecrow took another step back. As for the lady, her eyes widened, though barely.

"Your guard?" She glanced around the room, as if expecting more blond riders to spring out of the shadows.

"My other men, Thurstan and Gladhon, are out seeking our horses who were lost during the storm."

"Forgive me, I am not familiar with Rohan's princes," she said crisply, in a tone that suggested she ought to forgive him for being obscure for an important personage. She mirrored the prince's barest bow. "Be welcome to my home."

"Thank you," he drawled. Thengel couldn't tell if her pride annoyed or amused him. He chalked it up to her relative youth and stress of coming home to discover strangers had converted her hall into a sick room.

"If we're expecting more horses, I best make room in the stable," said the scarecrow.

Lady Morwen nodded with a glance over her shoulder. "Very well, Beldir."

Gildis cleared her throat, having approached them unseen on the way from the kitchen. Lady Morwen moved away from the table to allow the other woman to place a steaming pitcher of water and lay out new cloths draped over her arm on the table near Guthere's side. By now a pool of blood spread out in a crown below Guthere's head like spilled mead. Gildis reached for a cloth, but Cenhelm silently insisted on cleaning his underling's injuries himself and mopping up the mess. Carefully, he washed Guthere's face, beard, and hair, gentle and careful not to further damage the inflamed skin.

###

Guthere's irregular breathing became uncomfortably obvious as they waited for the healer in silence. Gasps for air, prolonged gaps between inhales, made it painful for all of them to breathe, as if their lungs were invisibly linked to the dying man's.

Thengel supplied more strips of cloth for Cenhelm, occasionally murmuring to one another. They were a tight-knit group around the table. That the lady stayed so close surprised Thengel. There was nothing for her to do, after all, until the healer arrived and the sight and stink made even his seasoned stomach queasy. But she stayed, occasionally touching Guthere's hand and murmuring his name. She seemed equal parts autocrat and kind. He caught himself watching her more than once trying to puzzle her out.

"Why do you call his name?" Cenhelm asked her curiously when she did it again. "He will not wake."

"It helps to hear a friendly voice," she replied. "To encourage him to heal. At least, it works on my seedlings."

She didn't see the strange look Cenhelm exchanged with Thengel over her head, distracted suddenly by the baying of the dogs.

###

The dogs announced Nanneth's arrival. The somber atmosphere in the room shifted and Thengel realized how choked he'd felt by anxiety and the wait. The doors opened on a squat old woman seemingly made of flaps and bulges. She carried a heavy bag over one shoulder and her grandson on her hip, the child only five or six. Beldir and the lad Gundor arrived behind her. Nanneth set the boy down, then cleared the area by the table by butting them all away with her wide hips. Without a word to anyone, she peeled the cloths away and inspected the wounds. The accordion-like skin of her lips stretched and contracted as she hummed to herself. Thengel thought she inspected wounds the way other people inspected meat before they paid the butcher's boy.

Nanneth mumbled something, her voice a toothless mash of sounds, but Gildis and Lady Morwen seemed to understand. They went to a tall chest that stood between the windows where heavy silver candleholders rested. They lit them when they returned to the table and placed them near Guthere's head. Nanneth murmured names under her breath and the boy found her the object in the bag, strange tinctures in waxed jars, spools, cloth, anything.

Nanneth surveyed the head, mostly clear of blood, but for a slow seepage from the troubling wound on the side of his head. She opened Guthere's mouth, lifted his tongue, harrumphed, then peeled back his eyelids.

Raising Guthere's hand in the air, Nanneth let it drop with a dull, fleshy bump on the table. Then she went back to his head. Thengel wanted to ask her what on Middle-earth she meant to learn from any of this, but he didn't dare interrupt. With a few indecipherable words to her grandson, the boy retrieved a pair of sheers. Nanneth cut away the thick, matted hair around the wound.

The probing continued, along with a stream of Nanneth's garbled words. Slowly, Thengel began to understand a few of them here and there. Despite Lady Morwen's assertion that he had nothing to fear in terms of Nanneth's skills, he began to doubt again as she probed the skull and sniffed at it. He almost stopped her when she bent her ear down to his skull and started tapping around with her knuckles. She straightened up.

"Headbroke," Nanneth said by way of diagnosis.

"That we knew," said Thengel, barely concealing a growl. "We don't need a healer to tell us-" He felt Cenhelm's arm on his shoulder.

Nanneth shrugged off Thengel's outburst like a fly. "Don't sound right. The swelling's gumming things up."

Suddenly her finger tipped into the open area above Guthere's ear and lifted the skin away from the skull. Lady Morwen, who had remained during the inspection, turned away from the table with a small groan.

"Can anything be done?" Cenhelm asked.

Nanneth held up a finger, then mumbled again to the boy who pulled out an awl and small mallet. Nanneth accepted the tools, then pantomimed hammering actions along Guthere's skull while making cracking sounds.

Cenhelm went pale. "You want to poke more holes in his head?"

Nanneth nodded pleasantly. They could hear one of the dogs scratching at the dirt outside, the room had fallen so quiet. Thengel had heard of such procedures, but they took place in the theater in the House of Healing by the most skilled healers the world of Men had to offer. Not on someone's dining table by an old woman whose assistant still had his milk teeth.

"Certainly not," he told her.

The old woman shrugged, as if Prince Thengel's opinion was neither here nor there.

Lady Morwen, still turned away, asked, "Nanneth, have you ever done this before?"

"I saw it done once," Nanneth mumbled. "In Minas Tirith years ago."

"Years ago?" Cenhelm sputtered.

"Nanneth wouldn't suggest it if she didn't think Guthere had a chance," said Lady Morwen.

Thengel agreed with Cenhelm. "The risk is too great."

Nanneth laid a fluffy, spotted hand on Guthere's forehead. "Then he dies."

Thengel rubbed his jaw, a day's worth of growth comfortingly abrasive on his skin. He had to weigh the decision carefully, after all, as responsibility for this retinue ultimately fell on him. Cenhelm and Thengel stepped away from the table to confer without being overheard.

"I regret coming here," Cenhelm confided in Rohirric. "There's more of witchcraft about that woman, than healing. I've never heard of anyone knocking holes into a man's head to heal him. She's ancient enough to be senile and I wouldn't blame her if she was. It doesn't give her leave to butcher injured men. And who is her assistant? A child. _Helm's beard_."

"I don't pretend to understand, but I know it has been done before," said Thengel tiredly. "The conditions are not ideal, but Lady Morwen seems to think the woman knows what she's doing."

"Lady Morwen is a child herself, if you haven't noticed," Cenhelm muttered. "Who is she that we take her word? This isn't a field hospital. How often do they see wounds of this magnitude in Imloth Melui?"

Thengel weighed these things in his mind. The pressure to decide made his eyes ache. "One thing we know without Nanneth telling us is that Guthere will die." His voice filled with regret. "I say we try."

"Very well, my lord," Cenhelm answered stiffly.

Returning to the table, Thengel gave the healer a nod. The boy produced a razor and strop for his grandmother to use. She went to work after a little sharpening, shaving Guthere's head, then pinning back the skin to expose bone. She took the awl and hammer and with careful precision, made the first hole.

The servants scattered after the first scrape of the awl against bone. Only Lady Morwen remained and her servant Beldir. She had not turned toward the table since Nanneth lifted the flap of skin above the broken skull, but she held her place with her back to the table through the hammering and sound of cracking bone. Thengel found he could not look away as the old woman made a wreath of holes in the skull, then carefully chipped away at the bone to unite them till a small disk came loose.

Thengel realized then that he had been holding his breath. But releasing it had been a mistake. Lady Morwen turned, as if the sound meant the worst had passed. Instead, she witnessed Nanneth dipping her finger into the open wound.

"Hnh," Nanneth grunted, then pulled out her finger. It made a small sucking sound and a purple globule and a bit of bone came out with it. There was a collective gasp of, "Oh!" around the table. Lady Morwen spun around took a few teetering steps away from the scene.

"Whoop," said the old lady as previously blocked blood pooled on the table.

###

Nanneth wound clean linen around the wound after what seemed like a very short time to Thengel. One by one, the curious servants returned who had scattered when the trepaning first began. Now they had only to wait to see how Guthere would respond to the surgery. This meant that other business presented itself - like whether or not the lady would accept strange men as house-guests. Thengel tapped Cenhelm on the arm and indicated that Guthere was in his care. The guard nodded his understanding and stood sentinel over the table. Thengel walked toward Lady Morwen, who waited apart from the others.

"Might I have a word, Lady Morwen?" he asked quietly.

Cheeks washed of color, her eyes were glazed and stared unseeing down the dark corridor opposite the table. Thengel seemed to be calling her out of some deep well of thought. After a moment, she blinked up at him.

"Is it safe?" Lady Morwen murmured.

He glanced back over his shoulder. Guthere's head had been crowned white with linen and Nanneth had turned her attention to the other cuts and scrapes on his face and neck. "For the moment," he answered. "I'm sorry the blood troubles you."

Lady Morwen's eyes focused sharply on his as if he had insulted her. "I can tolerate blood as well as anybody. Lifting the skin away from the wound, however." She shuddered again, pressing her palm to her mouth.

"Try not to think about it," he advised.

She flashed him a look over her hand as if to say she would have done so already if possible - and if he hadn't brought it up again.

"You seem to have no trouble." Her voice sounded tight with suppressed sick.

Thengel tried to look apologetic. He thought dispassionately about the surgery instruments, the white bone, the viscous dye blooming over the cloths. Soldiers performed their own operations, less delicate, typically successful. Killing came easier than healing and he'd grown accustomed to it. Human blood, at least, had a beautiful jewel tone he could appreciate. Not the oily black muck orcs sprayed whenever they were gutted by a blade. He decided not to explain that.

Instead, he asked, "Is there another place where we might talk?"

Lady Morwen led Thengel across the hall toward the cavernous hearth where two chairs stood. She gestured for him to take the chair across the buckskin rug near the fire that burned low in the grate. The fire provided a little light for the room. Though just past noon already the shadows were falling across the valley where the walls acted as screens to block the sun. He looked around the hall, seeing for the first time beyond the tunnel vision brought on by the crisis. Narrow windows, set in walls almost as thick as his arm was long, allowed bars of light to dissect the stone floor. High-backed chairs and wooden benches were pushed back against the walls after the last meal near the chest where the candles came from. The table commanded the center of the room, though there were divots in the stone nearer the corridor that suggested years of a head table in that area during feasts. Lamps hung unused from old beams. They were smaller and poorer than ones used in Merethrond, but beautiful in their simplicity. He could imagine it would cost Lady Morwen a fortune in oil to light them regularly. His attention returned then to the young woman and her hearth. She chose the chair that faced away from the table. A few sheaves of paper were piled on one of the broad arms and he could just see the makings of a list. _Wine - Adrahil_. _Cabbages… _

"What can I do for you, Prince Thengel?" she asked, drawing his attention away from the list. The imperious manner she had adopted earlier had fallen away and here he found the woman Morwen, not the Lady of Bar-en-Ferin.

"Pardon us for troubling your house," he said humbly. "We're in a bind. Guthere cannot be moved and the rest of my men are still tracking our horses. I'm afraid we have nowhere to go and must trespass on your hospitality."

Lady Morwen tapped her lips with a long finger. "I see your predicament. It would be impossible for you to move your friend, even if you had the means. And where would you go? I have rooms to spare with a little shuffling. There were five of you, I believe?"

"Yes," Thengel answered. "Though I do not know when to expect the last of our party to return with our horses." He leaned back in the chair as his body remembered it ought to be tired. "Our luck was against us today."

"Frankly, it's _good_ luck that only one of your men suffered injury after the storm we had," she mused.

"That is one way of looking at it," Thengel agreed. "And we were fortunate to find aid so readily in a place where we are unknown."

"Guthere will receive all the care we can give," she assured him. "We do not turn away those in need in Lossarnach."

Thengel bowed his head. "Thank you, my lady."

She waved away his thanks. "Perhaps you can answer some of my questions. How exactly did you withstand the storm?"

"We passed the storm in the hut of an artist." The memory made him cringe. The stink of goat hit him again.

"Teitharion?" she gasped, then covered her mouth to hide a knowing grin. "I'm sorry."

Thengel smiled grimly. "He has a reputation, I see."

Lady Morwen nodded behind her hand. Then she sobered and a line appeared between her eyes as a thought struck her. "You seemed surprised when I arrived," she recalled.

"You noticed?" he said. Thengel wished she hadn't. "Well, when Gladhon described a plantation in a retired valley, I thought it belonged to…"

The lady failed to conceal a smirk. "A retired woman?" she finished.

"Forgive me," he said, not without humor. "I mistook your housekeeper for you."

"What? Gildis!" Lady Morwen looked like she might hug herself.

While Thengel appreciated this mood over her more imperious one, he felt a bit sour at being laughed at. After all, it was an honest mistake.

"I have met few…to be honest, _no_ women your age who are head of their household," he pointed out.

"I suppose not," she replied blandly, as if she couldn't be bothered to care what anyone thought about her household or her age. Fortunately, she changed the subject. "What brought you to Imloth Melui in the first place, may I ask?"

"Certainly." Thengel rubbed his aching eyes, suddenly feeling very tired. "I met Lord Hardang during my last tour of Ithilien. He spoke often of Lossarnach and its beauty. A month ago I returned to Minas Tirith from Ithilien after a long absence, as I am sure you have heard of our struggles in that land."

Lady Morwen frowned, her eyes dim and thoughtful. "We have felt it even in Lossarnach. Not the danger, exactly," she was hasty to add. "But Lord Hardang was my kinsmen and he fell in Ithilien. Did you know him well?"

"Well enough. Hardang stood with me in the final push that freed Ecthelion and his company from the orcs assaulting one of his fortified dens in Emyn Arnen."

This was news, it seemed. The skin around Lady Morwen's eyes grew tight with some emotion. He wished she hadn't asked why he'd come to Lossarnach, but he could understand her desire to know. It must not happen often. He doubted many visitors had such a sad connection to her own family.

"I have heard precious little about my cousin's final moments," she confided, eyes fixed on her knees. "And nothing of his time in that part of the country after the Steward called on him to send men."

"It is not a pleasant topic," Thengel replied. "Even years after the Dark Lord's defeat, evil still breeds in Mordor. The land lies empty and open to any foul creature and that evil is now spilling out onto our borders."

"Yes. We have a great many refugees from Ithilien in this fief who remember the ambushes and raids on their homes," she told him. "When Hardang left, he expressed a hope that Captain Ecthelion would one day push the orcs out for good, maybe even allow families to return." Her gray eyes pinned him, wanting good news, but daring him to lie if there wasn't any. "Is there hope?"

Thengel felt troubled, weighing in his mind what he ought to tell this young woman with the sad, gray eyes. But then, something about her seemed steely enough to bear it, besides she had already lost enough that the truth would little matter.

"If they were Gondor's only trouble…" He combed his fingers through the back of his hair. "Even then, it looks bleak, my lady. These creatures multiply beyond reckoning, bent on harassing free lands. We cannot breach their strongholds. The captain's men merely provide a retention wall, if truth be told. Without Hardang's aid, in fact, we wouldn't have broken the siege on his den," Thengel admitted.

"Did he tell you about my house?" she asked quietly. "How did you know about Imloth Melui?"

Thengel shook his head. "No, that was Gladhon. My men and I wanted an escape from the city and entering the valley was a last minute decision when I saw the greenway. Hardang invited me to come to Arnach before he fell. I came to pay my respects to his household. We were going to bring a hind as a gift, but it ran ill."

"You are welcome. Hardang's word holds in this valley, dead or alive," she said gravely. "You may find it necessary to stay, for your companion's sake. You are welcome in my house, or you may leave him in our care if you wish to travel on to Arnach."

"I do not know what to do," he admitted as he stared down at his open palms in his lap. "Guthere would not like to be left behind."

Lady Morwen ran her fingers over the chair's polished wooden arm, thinking. "We are celebrating the blossoms soon. Hardang's brothers Halmir and Hundor will arrive at my house before the end of the week. You may pay your respect when they arrive, then travel with them to Arnach where Hardang's widow, Ferneth, has chosen to remain."

He inclined his head toward her. "Thank you, my lady. That would answer my dilemma."

Thengel then noticed his guard hovering on the edge of firelight. "Yes, Cenhelm?"

"Beg your pardon," he said with a respectful bow toward the lady. "The healer has finished." His eyes flicked between them, as if to ask what came next.

"Lady Morwen has offered to let us stay and care for Guthere here," Thengel told him.

"Yes." Lady Morwen rose. "I will show you where to move Guthere."

###

Cenhelm and Thengel carried Guthere with the scarecrow's help into one of the spare rooms down the corridor and laid him out on the bed placed in an alcove near another of the slim windows. Gildis followed with Guthere's boots and a bottle of some potion Nanneth left in the event the rider did wake. Cenhelm indicated his intention to stay the night in the room to watch over Guthere's progress, which Thengel echoed. Though visibly uncomfortable with this arrangement, Lady Morwen instructed Gildis to have comfortable chairs brought in.

"It seems like poor hospitality not to give you rooms of your own," she worried as the chairs came in. "My household can take turns sitting up with Guthere while you have some much needed rest."

"I appreciate your offer and it's no reflection on your hospitality," Thengel replied. "But we try to take care of our own when we can."

"Will you join the household for supper, at least?" Lady Morwen asked as Beldir and the boy Gundor entered with richly upholstered chairs and stools from another room.

Thengel was about to reply that at least one of them should remain with their companion, but a snort from Gildis interrupted him.

"The dining table is unfit for use," she reminded them all. "Supper will be served in the kitchen tonight while the table receives a scouring." Lady Morwen looked surprised, but when she tried to raise an objection, Gildis cut her off too. "I've already spoken with Hareth. It's the best we can do under the circumstances."

"Very well," Lady Morwen answered. "Forgive us, Prince Thengel. We do not customarily serve princes dinner in the kitchen."

"We are to blame," he reminded her. "In fact, Cenhelm and I will make sure the table is put to rights." Cenhelm nodded.

Lady Morwen held up a hand. "No. You are my guests."

"I insist," he said stiffly.

"So do I," she replied. The imperious brow returned, and she moved in such a way as to block his path to the door. "Watch over your friend. A servant will fetch your supper when it is ready."

Lady Morwen left them alone with a sweep of skirts before Thengel could argue the point further. Her servants followed behind. He stared at the back of the door after Gildis closed it behind her mistress.

"She likes to have her own way," he reflected.

Cenhelm coughed.

Thengel turned to face his guard. "Speak, Cenhelm."

"With all due respect," Cenhelm said dryly, "The lady's no worse than you for stiff necks."

"Oh? _My_ neck's stiff, is it?" Thengel's eyelids dropped in a show of indifference. He liked Cenhelm, but the guard had an annoying habit of criticizing Thengel in the same manner as Uncle Oswin.

"You might have asked the lady to provide water to wash with instead of arguing over the table," Cenhelm pointed out. "I'm relieved Guthere survived two holes in the head so far, but I'm none too grateful I still have to smell him. It's hardly a May morning in here."

Thengel was about to retort when someone knocked on the door. He slewed toward the sound. "Yes?"

"Pardon, lords," a servant said through the wood. "Lady Morwen sends her compliments and says you're to have a bath."

Cenhelm hastily opened the door on a stream of servants carrying pitchers of hot and tepid water and a tub.

###

To be continued! Many thanks to Lia and Gythja for helpful critique!

Also, there's a character list attached to the last chapter in case there were any names that were unfamiliar. ;)


	5. Morwen

Chapter 5: Morwen

Whatever steel had kept Morwen upright through the tumult of the previous afternoon, it had finally deserted her when she entered the solitude of her own chamber. Weariness kept her from doing more than scrub the dirt from her hands and arms after changing out of her rumpled overdress. She draped the garment carefully over a chair under the window and threw herself into bed with less care.

When she awoke the next morning to birdsong, the weight of the day dropped into her lap like an overfed cat. Morwen clambered out of bed, untangling a foot wound in the blankets. She could tell from the quality of light filtering in through the window that she had overslept. How had she done that? Yesterday had been a full day of hard work, but she hadn't overslept since she was a girl.

Of course, she hadn't witnessed what amounted to a near scalping before. Life must keep little stomach-wrenching surprises in her pockets to keep poor mortals on their toes, Morwen thought, and life had certainly marked Morwen out for a full share. She had discussed the situation with Gildis the night before and they agreed the overseeing of the patient's health and that care of his master would fall on Gildis. Her upbringing, however, led Morwen to feel obliged to put in an appearance in the sick room, not to mention to satisfy her curiosity. Morwen wanted to know that nobody had died under her roof during the night, proving that spring had laid a curse on Lossarnach.

Spring ought to bring hope and renewal, but lately it seemed only to bring news of death. With an ache that forced her to stop and lean on her dressing table, Morwen wanted her father. Randir made responsibility look so simple. She had spent the year proudly filling his shoes, pretending to be fearless when her knees were knocking together. Now Lossemeren loomed overhead and a near corpse lay in the other room. When standing on her own counted most, she wasn't sure if she was equal to it.

Coincidence, she told herself. Only a coincidence that her father had died unexpectedly just after the blossom festival last year. Her cousin Hardang's death just a month prior had been completely unrelated. Rangers died in Ithilien all the time. And the prince's guard suffered from sheer bad luck, but thanks to Nanneth, would probably live.

Morwen concentrated on her breathing until the pang subsided. The shame of Bar-en-Ferin falling down around her ears and her love for the inconsequential little valley of wild roses forced Morwen to finish dressing. If she left at once, she wouldn't be too far behind Beldir, she thought as she clawed at her tangled hair with a comb from the table. It chafed thinking that she wasn't with them. Her overseer was a capable man, but the orchard was a matter of pride — well wasn't it? She had a lot to prove. Slowly, Morwen's resolve grew.

How many women her age had the complete run of their own households? A hands-off landlord, Hardang had left her alone, but with Lossemeren around the corner and her other cousins coming to stay, it was an opportunity to prove to that she could handle the responsibility.

But she also had a responsibility beyond the orchard and that was one of hospitality. Morwen sighed and jerked the comb through another tangle. In the end, she had to choose people before trees. She wouldn't have to linger, just put in an appearance to satisfy her need to know that the rider would pull through and to pay her respects to the prince.

Morwen twisted the long heap of black hair into a knot and pinned it up, remembering why she shouldn't wear it loose when she worked. The knot should do until she could work out the snarls later. Then she hastily threw on the surcoat over her wrinkled shift and retreated toward the door.

…

No one but Morwen stirred along the somber line of shut doors when she stepped into the corridor. The quiet felt odd and cast a lonesome air over that wing of the house. Gildis and one of her girls should have had the doors open, airing the rooms while they worked. But perhaps fear of disturbing the sick room kept them away.

Morwen bit her lip, trying to decide if she should avoid it too and get on with her morning duties, or take the chance of disturbing the prince and his men while being a good hostess. Hirwen would choose the orchard, Randir the guests. Although she knew she had a reputation for having her own way, in reality, these disparate ghosts often dictated Morwen's decisions. The only philosophy she could claim for herself was to fain certainty until it became a reality.

The bare walls and floor amplified the sound of another door latch. At first Morwen expecting Gildis, but Prince Thengel's grim guard, Cenhelm appeared on the threshold. He held one of Nanneth's vials in his hand. They blinked at one another awkwardly. Morwen because she had expected Gildis and Cenhelm because he hadn't recognized her as the lady of the house, at first.

Cenhelm stepped into the passage and gingerly closed the door behind him.

"Good morning, my lady," he said grimly.

"Good morning," she replied. "How has Guthere fared?"

She felt doubtful from the haggard lines on Cenhelm's face.

"He is awake."

It took a moment for Morwen to realize she had heard correctly, the news had been delivered with such a melancholy humor. She almost didn't know if she ought to feel as relieved as she did.

"When?"

"Not a quarter of an hour ago. Guthere spoke a few words, said he was thirsty," said Cenhelm. "The prince is with him now, so I meant to trouble your housekeeper. The old woman instructed us to mix the contents of this bottle with wine to provide relief against the pain."

"As I have not yet seen Gildis this morning, I will bring you the wine myself," Morwen promised.

Cenhelm thanked her before disappearing behind the door again.

In the hall, she retrieved a decanter of wine and one of the glasses stored inside the locked cupboard between the windows. She had just locked it again when Gildis crept up on her from behind.

"Oh! My lady, I thought you would be out with Beldir by now, but I'm glad I found you. There's this bundle that came for you yesterday."

Pulled in yet another direction this morning, Morwen felt a knot form between her shoulders, radiating tension and annoyance. She faced the housekeeper and tried not to show her irritation.

"Just a moment, Gildis," she replied, tucking the key into a pocket. "The injured rider woke up."

"And he asked for a whole bottle of wine?" Gildis asked incredulously.

"Of course not," Morwen replied sharply. "Nanneth said to mix it with a tincture she left."

Gildis shifted a bundle from under one arm. "Give me the wine. I'll bring it to them. Hareth has their breakfast ready anyhow." She held out the parcel toward Morwen. "I want you to take a look at this instead, so I don't have to keep carting it around with me. I think it may be important."

"Whatever it is, it can wait." Gildis looked mutinous, so Morwen held up a hand and said gently, "Leave it in my room, if you must. I will take the wine myself and you bring the breakfast. Now that they're awake, I should at least greet all my guests before I disappear up the slope. Besides, I want to see the rider's condition for myself."

Gildis's lips pushed in and out as if she were sampling different words to find which ones she wanted. Finally, she said, "I think you ought to leave it to me like we agreed last night. I've already ordered their breakfast. Besides, it isn't exactly seemly for you to be going in and out of another man's bedroom. It's the appearance, you know."

Morwen huffed. "Gildis, in my house, I can go into a sick man's room without it appearing to be anything other than what it is."

"There are certain rules about —"

"In my house, I make the rules," Morwen countered. It was a cheap shot, but really, who in this unimportant little valley would care what Morwen did?

"Very well." Gildis sniffed. "But about this package, Lady Morwen—"

"Please, Gildis, just wait a little longer," Morwen replied over her shoulder as she hastened to deliver the wine to Guthere's grim attendants.

…

Cenhelm met Morwen at the door and ushered her inside, into darkness. The door closed soundlessly behind her. Drapes covered the windows but for a small sliver that admitted enough light to keep anyone from tripping over the quilt rack in the middle of the room or the chairs spread throughout the space. She wondered at the rack, then realized one of them had probably used it to prop up their legs while they slept. She really needed to make sure they had proper places to sleep now that Guthere had awakened.

The sliver of light dissected the chair pushed against Guthere's bed. The prince leaned over the arm toward Guthere, with his back to Morwen. So engrossed in watching over the sick bed, Prince Thengel did not seem to know she had entered.

"It's so dark," she murmured to Cenhelm. It seemed wrong to disturb the darkness by speaking above a whisper.

"The light pains Guthere," Cenhelm explained. "But I will draw the curtains if you wish."

She touched his arm to stay him. "No, no. I won't linger long. Don't trouble him on my account."

Falling silent, Morwen listened to the conversation across the room. Prince Thengel spoke in a low, rhythmic tone in the language of his homeland. He sounded deadly serious and she thought she better not interrupt him. Guthere's voice, muffled by pain and a swollen face, responded with a word here and there.

Cenhelm cleared his throat. "My prince, the Lady Morwen is here."

Prince Thengel turned his attention away from his charge only briefly to see for himself. Morwen thought he looked like a man who had spent the night in a chair, hair rumpled and the deep lines on either side of his mouth and eyes seemed exaggerated with fatigue and worry. Morwen felt a jolt of guilt, despite the fact that both Prince Thengel and Cenhelm had refused beds of their own. If the prince had a stiff neck…it was because of his stiff neck.

He acknowledged her with a nod in her general direction, and began to speak Guthere again, this time in Westron. Beside the nod, it seemed the only real acknowledgement of her presence. She felt surprised and a little annoyed to find that the subject of the deadly serious conversation happened to be fishing! Guthere seemed disappointed in the prince's ideas of technique.

"Where is the vial?" Morwen whispered to Cenhelm, feeling she ought to get her part of the business over with.

Cenhelm fished the vial out of his pocket to show her. He indicated the table across the room where they could mix the potion with the wine. They experienced a moment's confusion, since Nanneth hadn't specified just how much wine to use. In the end, Cenhelm decided to err on the side of too much wine rather than too little.

Nanneth's tincture smelled like a molding compost heap and wet ashes. The wine added a sickly, sweet bouquet that made the bile rise in Morwen's throat. Prince Thengel accepted the wine glass from Cenhelm. He sniffed, grimaced, then held the glass as far away as possible. He said a very short word in Rohirric probably not meant for her ears.

Morwen approached the bed hesitantly, feeling like an outsider and yet curious to see the affects of the potion. The prince and his guard seemed to accept her presence at the bedside, or at least to tolerate it. When she saw Guthere up close, she flinched. Although the bandages covered the worst of his injuries, the poor man looked like a purple goblin from the swelling and bruising, exaggerated by shadows. Guthere's eyes were dark and tight with pain as they fixed on Prince Thengel. Then they widened and relaxed on Morwen's face when she stepped into the thin sunbeam.

"Good morning, Guthere," she murmured.

"This is Lady Morwen," Prince Thengel said in a low voice. "You are in her house."

To her surprise, Guthere smiled just long enough to erase the visage of pain. She found herself smiling back at him. Then Cenhelm carefully slid his arm beneath Guthere's pillow to bolster the man up so as not to choke on the mixture. The poor man looked like he didn't want anything to do with jostlings or potions.

"I'm warning you, Guthere, it smells like a troll's—" Prince Thengel started to say when Cenhelm cleared his throat. The prince glanced at Morwen, then back at Guthere, so she never did get to hear what exactly it smelled like. "Well, just hold your nose and think of Fengel King."

Morwen felt at a loss to understand what Prince Thengel meant by those trivial words without any context, but Cenhelm gave his prince a black look, sharp with disapproval. The look was wasted on the prince who concentrated on not drowning Guthere while he tipped the contents of the glass down the man's throat. Guthere coughed and sputtered, before the medicine began to work and his body relaxed. A few garbled words passed his lips, then he dozed off.

Now that Guthere had fallen asleep, Morwen had done her duty.

"Nanneth will be along again soon, I'm certain, but I'll send someone to tell her of Guthere's progress," Morwen said to excuse herself. "Your breakfast should be along soon."

"Thank you, my lady," Cenhelm said.

Prince Thengel passed the glass to Cenhelm, then rose from the chair. He pressed his hand into his back as if he had a pain there. He looked like he wanted to say something, but then Hareth let herself in with Ioneth to set out a small feast. The servant girl, being extremely shy of these visitors, slipped from the room as soon as the tray hit the table. Hareth rolled her eyes.

"Is there anything else we can get for you?" Morwen asked.

"No, this will do," the prince answered, really looking at her for the first time. He smiled, though it was a pale one. It made him look even more tired. "Thank you."

Sensing her dismissal, Morwen slipped out of the room with Hareth.

"They don't say much, do they?" the cook noted with a snort once they were in the hall.

Morwen had to agree. She would have felt almost unwanted if not for Cenhelm and there had been an undercurrent in the exchanges between the three men that she could not begin to guess at on less than twenty-four hour acquaintance.

"They've had a nasty time and little rest," Morwen by way of justification, as much for her benefit as for Hareth's.

The cook shrugged her broad, round shoulders. "Did Gildis find you?"

"Yes - oh dear!" Morwen suddenly exclaimed as the hall door burst open. "What's he doing here?"

Hareth's son Gundor, apprenticed to Beldir, ought to have been by the overseer's side on the orchard slope. Instead, he trotted toward Morwen with sweat dripping down his face. He bobbed at the waist like a crane bobbing for insects once he reached her.

"M-my lady, Beldir sent me to ask if you mean to come this morning. We're shorthanded on account of the miller's daughter eloping last night and now the miller's shut up all the children at home. And now Beldir says the world's going to end," the boy rattled off with barely a breath between.

It took moment for the meaning to settle. Then the blood drained from Morwen's face.

"World's end? Is that what Beldir really said?" Hareth snapped before Morwen could manage a word.

Gundor's eyes flicked back and forth between mother and mistress. "Well," he whinged, "he really said Lossemeren would be ruined and that's sort of the same thing."

Ruined. Gundor voiced her fear and Morwen felt her rib cage tighten as she tried to breathe. Then she felt the weight of Hareth's hand on her shoulder.

"Beldir is an old shroud-hanger and you know it," Hareth told her mistress with a stern tone. "It can't be as bad as all that. You can't help it if the entire valley decides to lock up their daughters for the rest of the day. Those silly girls will be back before you know it or I don't know their father. He'll send them flocking back as soon as he misses the few coins they earn doing next to nothing."

The cook had a point, but anxiety had already set in. As the miller had an enormous family, they were down a considerable part of their workforce. They could cope in a general way, but not in time for the feast. If they didn't clean up the orchard, everyone would notice and everyone would know that Morwen had failed to run Bar-en-Ferin and worse — to live up to Hirwen's reputation.

The world really would end if the orchard wasn't in order for the feast.

"So, what should I tell Beldir?" Gundor asked.

"Tell Beldir —" Morwen threw her hands up in the air; it would waste time thinking up a message. "Oh nevermind, I'll be right there."

Gundor gave his mother a look, perhaps wondering if he could get a chance at another meal before he left, but she only waved the empty tray at him. He took the hint and scarpered, bowling over Gildis on the way out.

….

Once recovered, and after a few choice words for Gundor, Gildis stalked toward Morwen with a look of determination on her face. Her arms locked around the parcel with a vice grip.

"Ah, Lady Morwen, your business with the Prince has concluded," she said with only a hint of acid in her tone. "Good."

Morwen swallowed back a groan. Stars! After the news that she had lost much needed help in the orchard, the last thing she wanted was another delay!

"What is it, Gildis?" she asked as calmly as she could.

Gildis's wiry frame seemed to bow beneath the weight of martyrdom. "Lady Morwen, I have waited for you half the morning. You might spare me one tiny moment."

Morwen sighed. "Oh, all right." If the world happened to be ending, what difference did it make if she joined Beldir or not?

"Excuse us, Hareth." Gildis gave the cook a look that suggested she wouldn't put up with a third party in this particular discussion.

Sniffing indignantly, Hareth sailed between them, back to her kitchen.

"This won't take a moment," Gildis reassured Morwen. "It's about this package."

Morwen took the bundle in her arms and turned it this way and that. "I was not expecting anything. When did it come?"

"It arrived yesterday morning. In all the excitement, I forgot to give it to you."

The paper had a crinkled look that led Morwen to think that it had been opened more than once. Nosy Gildis - and probably Hareth too! She sat down on a chair pushed against the wall while she untied the strings holding it together. The paper fell away in her lap, followed by a cascade of rich silk embroidered over in blooming roses, yards and yards of it. She forgot the orchard immediately.

"Gildis," she breathed as she fingered the needlework. Custom work from Minas Tirith, she didn't doubt. It would cost a small fortune. "What is this?"

"A gift, I imagine," Gildis answered.

"A gift?" A line appeared between Morwen's brows as she puzzled over the costly fabric. The queasy feeling she experienced during the surgery returned. "But where did it come from?"

Gildis pulled a card out of a pocket hidden within the folds of her skirts. "The carrier brought it up from Arnach."

"Arnach?" Morwen stared at the card feeling more puzzled than ever. The seal, a rose in bloom flanked by two buds. Her cousin's personal stamp. "Why would Halmir send this? He never brings me anything back from Minas Tirith when he visits."

Gildis pressed her lips into a paper-thin line when Morwen looked up at her for an answer. She knew that look well. The housekeeper reserved it for the times when she either didn't like the answer she had to give, or else she felt that Morwen acted purposefully obtuse. Morwen had a feeling that Gildis's sour expression related to both in this instance.

"Only Lord Halmir can say," Gildis answered with a cryptic thread in her voice. "What would you like me to do with it?"

Morwen stood and shuffled the fabric into Gildis's arms as if it was woven from stinging nettles. "I have no idea," she said glibly. "What use do I have for such fine cloth?"

"It is a conjecture, but the intent might be for a dress," Gildis pointed out, giving Morwen's faded surcoat an unsatisfied glance. "A proper one."

Morwen stared at her. "I can't trim branches in silk."

"No," Gildis agreed slowly. "You might find other uses for a lovely dress."

_Doubtful_, Morwen thought to herself. Her needs were practical and this fabric had frivolity sewn all over it. Leave it to Halmir to choose something beautiful and useless. She had a nice dress refitted from one of her mother's and it came out but once a year for Lossemeren or whenever she visited Cousin Angelimir and Adrahil in Minas Tirith. But those visits had grown rarer since Randir's death and Adrahil's marriage.

"He probably sent this in a fit of generosity precipitated by grief. He knew I favored Hardang," Morwen added thoughtfully. She knew her cousin never gave anything away for free, least of all to a little cousin he once left in an apple tree while he carried off the ladder.

"I can't accept this from Halmir. It is common knowledge that he's impulsive," she said with disgust. "I shouldn't wonder if he already regrets the loss of coin."

"If you say so, my lady," Gildis replied.

Morwen tossed the card into the empty fireplace. "Wrap the silk again.

"Shall I send a courier or would you like to return it to him at the feast?" Gildis asked.

Morwen hadn't thought of that. "Find someone to take it right away. The sooner the silk is back in his hands, the sooner he'll be relieved of whatever folly made him send it in the first place."

Gildis smiled unexpectedly.

"What?"

The smile disappeared. "Oh nothing. I just remembered that Hareth owes me a few silver pennies."

"I see," Morwen replied dryly, though she didn't. The cook and the housekeeper seemed to have a secret understanding that went back long before Morwen had been born. Servants' prerogative, she supposed, choosing not to inquire.

"Well, you had better go," said Gildis, suddenly urgent now that her own business with the mistress had been attended to. "It's almost noon!"

As if she needed the reminder!

…

Morwen felt the pressure on her chest release as she stepped out into the glorious sunshine that filtered through the trees shading the yard. At last, the free air! The stress of the sick room and her kinsman's odd behavior, even the weight of her responsibilities felt like nothing. Busy hands were the best cure for bad feelings and an anxious heart, Hirwen always said.

The air still smelled of wet dirt and freshly bathed grass and leaves. The yard seemed strangely quiet. All the dogs must have chased Beldir and the others into the orchard. She didn't mind them being underfoot. Later, when the fruit began to grow, the dogs frightened away the birds and other animals all hoping for an easy supper of cherries, apples, peaches and plums.

If she ran, she could make it to the upper slopes before everyone stopped for their midday meal. First, she would have to get out of view of the house, or rather, out of Gildis's line of sight.

The shingle crunched beneath Morwen's boots as she followed the long line of the house toward the back where a path lead through the birch grove, a shortcut that bypassed the wandering path of the greenway before it arrived at the orchard walls.

Morwen made a sharp turn around the corner of the house. Instead of an empty path, she came face to face with a the velvety muzzle of a horse, nearly receiving an unfortunate knock to the head. Woman and horse startled. Morwen fell against the side of the house while the horse sidled nervously by. The tall, dark rider reined in the creature before quickly dismounting.

Morwen pulled together what dignity she had after a scare like that while the rider apologized profusely. Tousled and dirty, he looked as though he had spent more than one night deep in the woods. Behind him, a man with a shaven head and an alarming set of tattoos down his neck waited with a line of horses. Both men looked haggard, with shoulders stooped by weariness. Their lips were grim lines.

Morwen recognized the filthy Gondorian as Gladhon, the son of a woodsman who lived in the valley. Gladhon passed the reins on to his companion. Touching a hand to his breast, Gladhon bowed.

"Begging your pardon, Lady Morwen. I did not mean to run you down," he said humbly.

"Hello, Gladhon," she replied dryly, rubbing the elbow she skinned on the wall.

Gladhon scratched the back of his neck where the dirty hair met skin. "Er, we've just returned with the Prince's horses."

"I see that," she replied. After all, at least one of them had nearly trampled her.

The tattooed rider, and the grimmest of the two, dismounted and murmured something to Gladhon. A thick accent obscured whatever he said.

"Thurstan wishes to be presented to you, my lady. He is another of Prince Thengel's Rohirric guard," said Gladhon. The rider bowed at the waist. "He wishes to know what news you have of our wounded companion and Prince Thengel."

"Your companion Guthere is well. The healer managed to - to…well, she patched him up." Morwen swallowed. "Guthere awoke this morning and even spoke a few words with Prince Thengel."

The men looked at one another. Gladhon laughed and clapped his companion on the back. The Rohirric guard managed a smile. "Well, that's a good word. We'd imagined the worst. I feel much lighter. Don't you, Thurstan? No, I suppose not."

"The horses need proper attention," Thurstan replied gravely in highly accented Westron.

"I believe Beldir outfitted the stable with everything you will need," Morwen told them. "I can show you the way."

"I remember where the stable is, my lady," Gladhon told her. "Don't trouble yourself. Only, the Prince should be told we have arrived with our quarry."

Morwen's heart sank beneath the duty of hospitality. "Oh course. I will tell him myself right now. If you'll follow me."

The orchard never felt so far away as Morwen retraced her steps across the yard. She didn't believe in fate. Yet, she couldn't help wondering if fate had conspired against her, whether she believed in it or not.

"Did you have a difficult time tracking the horses?" she asked politely as they followed behind her across the shingle toward the outbuildings.

"Sure," Gladhon replied. "Thurstan thought they were trying to gallop back to Rohan. I say they didn't care where they went, so long as they didn't have to spend another night in Teithalion's wormy lean-to."

Thurstan looked impassive at the mention of the artist.

"I thought you would have better sense than to stay the night in his hut," Morwen pointed out.

"Oh, I'd forgotten his eccentric ways. I haven't been this way in so long. You know, I was just telling Thurstan here about the years I used to work in the orchard as a boy," Gladhon mused. "There were some days in Ithilien where I wished I could go back to that simpler time, climbing trees and picking apples."

Morwen's agile mind saw light. She would have stopped dead in her tracks if not for the immediate danger of getting trampled again.

What if she had mistaken the omens? What if fate had just conspired in her favor? Albeit, in a roundabout way involving an unfortunate accident. What were errant miller's daughters to two or three grown men with nothing to do while their friend convalesced?

Morwen gave Gladhon a radiant smile. "Who says you can't?"

* * *

TBC

_Many thanks to Lia, Gythja, Thanwen, and Gwynnyd for helping to turn this train wreck of a chapter around. :) _


	6. Thunor

Morwen arrived on Guthere's threshold the next morning with an offering of lilies of the valley, "To sweeten the air," she told Cenhelm when he opened the door. "May I speak to Prince Thengel?"

Cenhelm disappeared with the mug of white bells and Prince Thengel replaced him at the door. He followed her into the corridor.

"Lady Morwen," he said.

"Prince Thengel."

Now that he was in front of her, she felt out of her depth. Gladhon had enthusiastically agreed to broach the subject of labor with the prince before they shared the evening meal. By the time the prince had returned to the sickroom, they had entered into an agreement. Although it worked to both of their advantages, the shift from benefactress to something more symbiotic left her feeling unsure of herself.

"I wanted to say how kind it is of you to lend your men to help on the plantation." Morwen tried to sound polite and cool rather than eager. "I'm grateful for it."

The prince regarded her silently as if trying to puzzle her out.

"Not at all," he eventually replied.

Morwen thought he sounded exactly the way she wanted to. Diplomatic. Detached. It was not reassuring coming from him. She still couldn't shake that awkwardness of not knowing how to respond to him. Her father would know. Randir would be warm and friendly. Until Morwen could figure out Prince Thengel, she opted for something between formality and ingratiation.

"I wouldn't allow it ordinarily," she confided, "but the storm put us behind in our preparations."

"So Gladhon said. My men are only happy to have a task to occupy their time. We are indebted to you for your kind hospitality."

She hardly thought allowing her guest to sleep on a chair and a quilt rack qualified as hospitality, but that had been Prince Thengel's choice. One night in Teitharion's cottage and two nights spent on uncomfortable chairs, using a quilt rack to prop up his legs had taken its toll on the prince. His hair would not lie down, as if it had a mind of its own or preferred to grow to show off its color and curl. It gave him a savage aspect, though the man's face was a bit ruddy, and the expression grave rather than brutish. Not a bad face. There were a few deep lines etching along his mouth and eyes, but it looked more like exposure to the sun and wind were the culprits than age.

"Was there anything else you wanted to speak to me about?" he asked her.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," she told him. "Gildis prepared a room for you. I understand Guthere is resting well through the night and requires less care."

Prince Thengel allowed Morwen to lead him down the corridor to a doorway at the end. But she seemed to leave the prince behind as soon as she pushed the door inward, stepping into memories reborn of wafted scents of old paper, wood smoke and wax of her father's study. Morwen seldom visited this room for that very reason; the memories overwhelmed her. She breathed in the lingering aroma of sage her father used to burn to clear his mind during a complicated project, mixed with that faint whiff of scented water he wore. Hirwen used to tease him about his urbane affectations, but Minas Tirith had been his home longer than Imloth Melui. He remained unflappable. Her mother, Morwen remembered, always smelled like whatever the sun and air and earth offered up.

_I'll be in the sanctuary_, Randir used to say whenever he escaped to the library. If the door stood in limbo between the wall and the jamb, Morwen would climb into his lap and listen to whatever he happened to be reading. Lists of names, tomb diagrams, or odes written for the dead by their relatives, punctuated by the scratch of his pen as he took notes.

If Randir's door was shut, however, she imagined it as the entrance to a dragon's den and gave the study a wide berth. Better to face a firedrake than interrupt a scholar in the middle of a thought. On those days, she got under her mother's feet in the orchard and ate whatever the field hands gave her till her stomach ached and she got sick in the grass. She bit back a sudden grin - those stomachaches occurred more often than she ought to admit.

The presence at her back pulled Morwen into the present. She stepped out of the way to allow Prince Thengel to follow her inside the small room. It was only an antechamber of the more spacious bedroom her parents had shared. With each of his steps deeper into the room, dust motes swirled upward in the light coming in through the leaded glass.

"You may have the use of these rooms while your rider heals," she told him. She gestured to the far end of the room to a small door beside the window. "The bedroom connects to the study through that door."

"Thank you, Lady Morwen."

His tone was somber, but his eyes were sharp. They took in the room in one sweep, particularly the points of entry. But then they lingered on the floor to ceiling oak bookcases and the books stored behind leaded glass. He rested a hand on Randir's desk as if to stop himself from being transported.

"These are your books?" he asked with something like approval.

Morwen hesitated. "My father, Lord Randir's books. He was a scholar."

He turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. The shelves, the desk, the chairs. He eyed the painting of a ship at sea over the fireplace.

"I thought I heard Gladhon say Lord Randir served as a scribe for Lord Turgon."

"He did serve the Stewards in Minas Tirith during his younger days. His collection used to be more extensive, but he left many of his volumes to the Archives in his will." The expression on his face led her to add, "You may read whatever is left, if you like. They are little used these days."

His smile transfigured his face, the crags gone. "Which do you recommend?" he asked. "There are many to choose from."

Morwen felt heat rising up her throat. "I have not read very many myself," she admitted, to her own embarrassment. "My father was the family scholar. I used to listen to him read in the evenings, but…." She shrugged helplessly.

Reading had always been of utmost importance to her father, but she had never acquired the taste or the time. Randir used to say it was because she would not bother to _make _time. She flattered herself that books were the only point of contention in their relationship.

Prince Thengel's transfigured expression muted to something more human. Perhaps he recognized that she wasn't a kindred spirit. She felt a little sorry to disappoint him, but honestly, the books were not the strongest feature of Imloth Melui. What were books to trees and flowers?

"I understand," he said gravely. "I have had little time of late to read."

She doubted him, but said, "Because you were in Ithilien?"

He nodded. "Orcs have made it all but impossible for anyone to live in peace in that land."

"Then I hope you enjoy the respite. Lossarnach is the most beautiful land in Gondor. We are a peaceful fief…despite what you may have experienced of our trees."

"Thank you," he said. "I hope to find it as you say."

Morwen reached for the handle to shut the door behind her as she left, but stopped.

"Is there nothing else Gildis or I might bring you?"

He held up a hand. "My men and I already find ourselves greatly in your debt, Lady Morwen. I can fend for myself from here. Thank you."

Well, that relieved her ears, she thought. If he hadn't brought a concussed soldier to her door, she would have considered him far less maintenance as a guest than cousin Adrahil. Except with Adrahil, she tended to know where she stood. None of the stiff, formal exchanges.

"As you wish." Morwen closed the door behind her. "If you should need me, I will be in the orchard for the rest of the day."

...

The sun had fully crested the eastern ridge, casting its rays deep within the foothills by the time Morwen arrived at the orchard walls. When she slipped inside the gate, she entered a world of fragrance and light. Her sanctuary. She sucked in a breath as the light caught on the white and pink ribbons of blossoming fruit trees spilling down from the hills like streams running through fields of green. The cherry trees were columns in an arcade that Yavanna herself in the Uttermost West wouldn't turn away from easily. Morwen blinked away the blossoms blown down in the breeze.

A narrow, brick trail dissected the columns. As she wandered up the sloping line of fruit trees, Morwen imagined the tour she would give Adrahil and his new wife. Beldir had added the brick in the autumn especially for Aranel, who had lived in Minas Tirith all her life and who was by all accounts a very fine lady. Morwen didn't object to mud on her own boots, but she didn't think someone who grew up in a city made of stone would feel the same. It was one way of welcoming Adrahil's bride to the family.

It was too bad there weren't any actual cherries yet, Morwen reflected, or she would send Lady Aranel home with a basket. It wouldn't hurt her business if the newest princess of Dol Amroth developed a taste for Lossarnach cherry tarts, for example, and set the fashion for other fruited pastries or preserves in Minas Tirith. It was a mercenary motive, but what were relatives for? Her mother would be proud of her for advancing their goods that way. Her father would be appalled. Morwen would have to wait until she went to Minas Tirith herself in the summer to present Aranel with fruit.

The dogs found Morwen before she spotted the wiry, upright figure of the overseer. They danced around her until they had sniffed out every last scent on her dress and hands before scattering to discover other delights under the trees. She waved and Beldir acknowledged her with a nod before climbing a ladder. He had been the prop and pivot of the plantation since Lady Hirwen's death, for at the time Lord Randir knew more about maintaining an archive than an orchard. Morwen depended on Beldir to keep the farm going. Though mistress of Bar-en-Ferin in name, in reality she was more of an apprentice.

Morwen passed Gundor, the overseer's actual apprentice. Where she meant to learn everything she could from Beldir, he seemed to do the opposite. He had a knack for unlearning things as quickly as Beldir could teach him. Beldir was a principled man with exact ideas. That made him an impatient teacher. And though he had sound judgment in most cases, Gundor seemed to bring out his more tyrannical side. Gundor was his whipping post whenever anything went wrong. With the loss of half a family of workers, it had been a difficult few days. All the more reason to spend as much time as possible within the walls, Morwen reflected as the orchard echoed with the tune of birdsong and the thrum of saws.

Fortunately, the only trees that had suffered irrevocable damage from the storm were the ones that Beldir had already identified as too weakened by the winter cold. The rest would recover with careful pruning. The wind had carried away many of the blossoms, but the feast would be held near the bottom of the slope where the walls had protected the trees' crowns. Everything would be beautiful for her first feast as mistress of Bar-en-Ferin and they wouldn't be too hurt for fruit come harvest.

Morwen took a sip of water from the dipper in the rain barrel after the long walk. She watched a pair of robins hopping in the wet dirt at the bottom between the trees. The sharp crack of a heavy tree limb scattered the birds where Gladhon had been sawing. The man called Thurstan appeared to drag the branch to the burn pile. She felt happy to see them and less guilty about the arrangement. People needed something to do, after all.

Beldir, who was a few rows ahead of Morwen, worked steadily up the slope. He kept disappearing into the white crown of a tree, testing the branches or inspecting a spot on the bark before bobbing back up to prune another branch back.

Somewhere behind and closer to the wall, she overheard Gundor shriek, then hiss in pain.

She found him a few columns over. "You haven't lost a finger, I hope?" she said, nodding at his handsaw which now lay on the ground. He hopped from one foot to the other while cradling his hand to his chest.

"A bee stung me," he stammered. "Beldir always makes me work near the hives."

If by near the hives, he meant in the open air, then yes, Beldir always made him work near the hives.

"Stop waving your hand in the air and let me see."

Gundor stood as still as his nerves would allow, though his knees were knocking together. She found the waxy bump with the stinger protruding from it like a pin from a cushion. She ripped it out without warning. Gundor yelped before realizing it hadn't hurt any more than the initial sting.

"Pour some water over it." Morwen produced some linen strips from the deep pocket on her belt and a small box of ointment. "Why don't you follow Beldir for a bit and clean up the branches. If you get under his feet enough, I'll have a chance to catch up to him."

"Alright," he said, trying not to sound as relieved as he felt. Branches were easier to carry than to cut. He threw in a hasty, "Thank you, my lady."

Morwen took up Gundor's deserted saw and started back where he left off, in the first column of apple trees. She blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and began to climb the ladder. The damaged branch hung down at an unnatural angle, nearly touching the ground. Morwen inspected the crotch where Gundor had begun to cut away the branch. She fitted the saw into the notch, reflecting how much better she preferred her area of healing to Nanneth's.

It was hard work to get the branch down, but she liked it. For the smaller branches, she used shears instead of the saw. It felt clean, somehow, clipping away at the broken tree, despite the fact that she was sweating and her hair was a frowsy mess from the wind. When her own hands started to blister without the protection of gloves, she climbed down from the ladder to clean up the sticks and branches scattered beneath the tree.

She stopped to pick at a troublesome splinter in her thumb and again regretted the loss of gloves. She'd had to lend her own to one of the hired girls who foolishly left her own out in the downpour and never returned them. Lominzel probably never would now. Morwen decided to leave the splinter in as a reminder to talk to the miller's wife about her younger daughters. While the prince's men were able workers, she doubted he would part with them for good. Come harvest, the orchard would miss the loss of one family.

Finished with her pile, Morwen rose from her stoop to take the ladder to the next tree, only to discover Prince Thengel's hand on one of the rungs. He held a book in the other.

"Oh! Prince Thengel…good morning," she stammered. "I didn't see you."

"Good afternoon," he replied.

Morwen squinted at the sun through the branches. Oh. It was hard to tell time in a tree.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said. "You were engrossed in your work."

"It wouldn't be the first time," she admitted. "How is Guthere?"

The prince smiled. It looked almost self-deprecating. "Nanneth arrived an hour ago to check on him and chased Cenhelm and I away. But he is improving well. His color has come back and we do not see any sign of infection."

Morwen smiled back, pleased with the news. "We pride ourselves in Nanneth's skill, as well as the healing properties of our herbs," she observed.

"But you yourself are not a healer?" he asked.

Morwen's lips curled in a small sign of distaste. "No. I prefer growing fruit to healing limbs. Or in this case, cutting back branches." Then she asked, "What have you and Cenhelm done to amuse yourselves?"

"Cenhelm wanted to exercise the horses, while I have elected to read from your fine library. Now I've come to make sure my men are working well."

"More then well," she said happily as she hefted the ladder to the next tree. He followed with her tools, though she had not asked him to.

"I think Beldir may bribe them to stay," she mused. "In fact, I might suggest it to him."

Prince Thengel shrugged, not very afraid. "They are too honest for that."

She climbed up, found a troublesome branch, and gestured for Prince Thengel to hand her the saw.

"Perhaps we can make them a better offer," she replied as she worked.

Lord Thengel looked around the hill, taking in the neat columns and the workers, then back at her. "You might, especially if you make for an easier task master."

"I doubt it," she said. "I expect them to work as hard as I do. Why, are you a difficult master?"

When he did not immediately reply, she glanced down at him from through the blossoms. A few had gotten in his hair. His head lolled to the side as he looked up at her, thinking.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I am merely surprised to find the kinswoman of the Prince of Dol Amroth climbing ladders and tending the fields alongside the farmhands." His tone was friendly, but wondering.

Morwen climbed down a few rungs till they were eye to eye. "You know my cousins?" she asked.

Lord Thengel nodded. "We have met. As the Steward's…" he fished around for a word, "guest, I spend the majority of my time with him when I am not in Ithilien. Your cousins serve him in council."

Morwen almost snorted. "Ah, I see."

That explained his expectations of what a woman descended from Belfalas nobility ought to look like. Morwen could almost hug herself. She compared to Prince Angelemir's family as a bluebell compared to an orchid. It didn't trouble her, but everyone had their preferences.

"You will soon discover that Lossarnach is not Dol Amroth - or even Minas Tirith. The women of those cities have the luxury of idleness while others take care of their households," she said proudly. "Not so in the backwoods of Imloth Melui. Ladies in this part of the country can't be compared to the princesses of others."

Thengel bowed his head in acquiescence or perhaps to hide a smirk. "I see that now," he replied.

Morwen decided to change the subject. "So, Nanneth has banished you from the house, you were reading, and have made sure your men are hard at work. What else will you do with your day?"

"I thought I might lend a hand here," he told her genially, holding up the clippers. "I am in want of employment."

Morwen blinked at him, feeling a mixture of anxiety and regret. The former for having to deny his request and the latter…also for having to deny his request.

Necessity had led her to cross the line into inhospitality when she commandeered the Prince's men. Allowing Prince Thengel to carry branches to the burn pile like the lowliest of menials would be unforgivable. She felt certain if her father ever haunted her, it would be for allowing something like this to happen in his household. Yet, looking at the outline of the prince's muscled arms and chest beneath the tunic he wore, she knew he could make short work of a branch that would give her more trouble. Morwen wondered if he had been sent to her as a test of character in the battle between practicality and good manners. Valar help her.

"My Lord Thengel, you know I could not possibly allow that."

His light eyebrows rose as his expression changed from genial good humor to something like stubbornness. "Even if it happens to be work you do yourself?" he challenged.

"It is my orchard and I am nobody of consequence," Morwen reminded him. Then she added, "It would be unpardonable—"

She was interrupted by a loud squeak and a shout of surprise, followed by the sound of something heavy landing on the ground. Beldir and Gundor both lay on the grass, limbs splayed out, with a ladder sandwiched between them.

"Oh, stars," she breathed, completely descending the ladder. "Gundor's gotten under foot again."

Gladhon and Thurstan appeared from the trees to help untangle the men from one another and help them to their feet.

Beldir was no poet, but he had a certain freedom of creative expression, particularly in epithets, which he applied liberally to his apprentice. A severe chop of his free hand sliced the air between them and punctuated each word.

The prince's men hovered nearby in case an intervention should be needed, but Morwen already had an idea about that.

Pointing at the volume in the prince's hand, she asked, "Which book did you chose?"

Though puzzled by her interest in the book when something more interesting was developing farther up the hill, he answered, "One I was surprised to find in a Gondorian scholar's library." He held up the spine for her to read. "It is a translation of tales out of the north. From my people, I believe. At least, we tell them in our songs, as we do not write them down. Have you read it?"

Morwen peered at the title and found it was a single, complex jumble of consonants and vowels, some unfamiliar, written in another tongue. "No, I don't believe so. What is it about?"

He turned the book around in his hands. "Adventures, mostly."

"Prince Thengel, I've already asked one very large favor of you - and I cannot possibly allow you to do the work of a servant, but I would be deeply gratified if you could read those tales to us. Could you?" she asked.

He silently appraised her. "Why?"

She glanced over at poor, shrinking Gundor. His head drooped down to his chest as he took the abuse.

"Gundor needs to be rescued," she replied. "I think he would appreciate the distraction just now."

When she looked back at Prince Thengel, he smiled at her. The difference it made on his face surprised her. For one, he hardly resembled the detached man she had encountered that morning as they discussed the exchange of men for hospitality. She wondered if he were naturally distant or if he had merely fed off of her own coolness.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I'm learning more about my hostess," he answered. "Beneath the imperiousness, you have a champion's way."

Morwen felt the telltale heat on her throat and cheeks. Imperious! She?

"I might have been afraid of you, if not for your kindness to Guthere," he told her.

Morwen stared at him, at a loss. Then a memory arose. Adrahil twitting her about cherry trees growing out of her ears or something similarly outrageous. A joke. Nobody had joked at her expense in a long time. She'd forgotten the sensation.

"You're teasing me," she said dryly.

"Maybe. Maybe not." He flipped through the pages of the book in his hand. "Now, which tale should I read?"

Morwen didn't particularly care so long as it deflected Beldir's attention away from his apprentice and gave them a moment of peace.

Prince Thengel leafed through the pages. "Perhaps a short one. Ah. This is a fragment of a longer tale." He closed his thumb in the book to mark the beginning of the story he had chosen.

"That is well," she said. "Now, you might want to stand back a moment while I put out the fire." She nodded in Beldir's direction.

That smile again. "I'll wait till it's safe."

Morwen took a bucket of water from the barrel to give them all a drink or to throw it on Beldir, depending on what the situation warranted.

"Peace, Beldir. I think we all need some lunch," she told them. "And look, Prince Thengel has arrived. He has agreed to help pass the time with a story."

Gladhon and Thurstan looked away from the spectacle and spotted Prince Thengel. Beldir looked annoyed at himself for not noticing that someone had entered the grounds and gave red-cheeked Gundor a black look for distracting him with his foolishness.

Beldir briskly removed his gloves and tucked them into his belt while he composed himself. "We may as well stop for the noon meal. Gundor, bring the baskets over and see you don't drop anything."

Gundor promptly departed to find the baskets Hareth had prepared earlier that morning. The others formed a circle on the grass beneath the trees' shade. They were joined by Nanneth's older grandsons and some of the wives and daughters of woodsmen who had joined Hardang in Ithilien but had not come back. Morwen sat down in the space between Gladhon and Nanneth's oldest grandson, but Gladhon made room for Prince Thengel to sit between them.

"What tale is it?" Gladhon asked.

"It is the story of Thunor and the suitors."

Gladhon shrugged. "Never heard of him."

"He is an old hero of the Northmen," said Thurstan.

"This book contains only the fragment of Thunor's adventure after he won a great battle," Prince Thengel explained. "This story contains his quest to reclaim his hall."

"What battle?" Nanneth's grandson asked. "With the dark lord S—?"

Everyone shushed the boy.

"Older even than that battle," the prince answered. "Thunor's enemies were the Easterlings before the tall warriors from over the sea arrived."

Gundor arrived laden with the baskets. While the food passed from person to person, Prince Thengel told of the Northmen's plight against the Wainriders. Thunor, she was able to piece together, was an ancient thane of the Northmen long before the many princes of Rhovanion were unified or Eorl the Young rode into Calenardhon.

Prince Thengel began to read Thunor's tale as the hero had awakened from a dream, discovering that he slept in an unknown wood of trees that seemed to brush the heavens with their crowns. The hollow spaces beneath the trees were as cavernous as any mead hall. It smote his heart with the memory of his own great hall in wilderland. How long had he slept and how long had the hall been bereft of its lord?

Morwen's interest wavered during a long lamentation that might have been for the hall or it might have been a lamentation for Thunor's wife. She couldn't tell. The two seemed to be one and the same in the poem. It picked up again when Thunor recalled the battle with the Wainriders and recounted the supernatural blizzard that had driven him apart from his companions, lost in wilderland and unable to find his way home.

After the blizzard, Thunor wandered out of reckoning. He was lost among a strange folk, ensnared by an elven enchantress who held him for years in her woodland realm where he had fallen asleep - the instance when the story began. Only when Béma appeared to him in his dreams, revealing that his hall was in danger from traitors and outsiders, did the enchantment break and the way home became clear to Thunor.

Morwen stopped the Prince. "Béma? Who is he?"

"The one called Oromë in your reckoning," Thengel translated. "The great rider and huntsman of the Valar."

"Oh." It hadn't occurred to Morwen that the Valar would have other names.

By the time Béma…or Oromë…intervened, however, twenty years had passed. When Thunor arrived at his hall, he found it filled with lords from the East, along with their households. His loyal riders were lost in the blizzard that had separated them long ago, leaving the hall barely defensible. And those men who had been left to protect the hall had traded their gold torques for the gold rings and new shields provided by these foreign lords. Rich gifts. They took to serving themselves at the expense of the Thunor's lady, feasting themselves and the lords who came as suitors to the widow - so they supposed her after twenty years with no lord. Only Thunor's wife remained loyal, for she too wore the torque, a solid ring of gold with no visible opening, he had given her on their handfasting day. But the lord had returned like a thief, not a king, to a hall that had diminished under the gluttony of so many suitors. The queen's faithfulness would matter little if he had no means to reclaim his hall and rid the place of the Eastern leeches.

Here, the prince's voice began to crack out of dryness. He coughed and Morwen brought him some water. The sun had risen high over the valley and most of the food had disappeared into contented bellies. Even Beldir had a grudgingly absorbed expression on his face. She felt vaguely torn between continuing the day's work and hearing the rest of the story.

Prince Thengel glanced up at her from the pages of the book. Closing it, he gratefully accepted the dipper of water. She sat down again beside him, ready to hear more now that things were actually happening.

"It is a long tale. You will have to wait until tomorrow to find out what happens," he said apologetically. "Else, I won't have a scrap of voice left."

Morwen pursed her lips, not liking to wait. She didn't like the idea of all those suitors badgering the queen and make nuisances of themselves, either. But she couldn't press the prince to overextend his voice. She nodded to the others who got up on legs shaky from sitting for so long in one attitude. Beldir directed them around the slope to trees that had been marked the day before.

While the others dispersed, Morwen took advantage of her position as hostess to wheedle more of the story from them.

"Couldn't Thunor just make the suitors go away?" she asked as he took another drink from the dipper. "Once they knew it was their lord?"

He lowered the dipper. "How when he had no éored to back his authority anymore? They had lusted too long after his riches and his wife and had ceased to be loyal. Revealing himself would have been suicide. "

Ah, she hadn't thought about that. It is easy to say, _I'm in charge_, but less easy to prove it. "So what did he do?" she asked, eyes bright.

Prince Thengel considered for a moment, perhaps weighing whether or not he should keep revealing the story to her.

"I suppose he could cut their throats in their sleep," she mused.

He grimaced. "Hardly sportsmanlike."

"It would get the job done," she countered. "And quickly."

"The Northmen would hardly consider it honorable for a hero to defeat his enemies while they were asleep," he told her with vague disapproval. "He had to win outright, but without revealing his position. So he put on a disguise and challenged the suitors to a contest for the queen's hand."

Morwen plucked at the blossoms that had fallen near her feet. "And did he beat them?"

Thengel grinned at her eagerness. "Of course, but the question is how."

"The question is," she replied after a moment's consideration, "how long did his wife have to put up with this foolishness?"

Thengel handed back the dipper and gave her an inscrutable smile. "Long enough to make it a good story. But perhaps not from the wife's perspective."

"No, not with everyone making decision for her and bidding on her."

The prince looked down at the book cover resting on his leg, thinking. "But without the suitors, there isn't much of a tale. The whole point of the story is Thunor's homecoming and the joyful reunion between the husband and wife after long travail," he told her as he tapped on the book.

Morwen shrugged. This is why she didn't much care for stories. They were rarely practical. "After twenty years, she might have done just as well without Thunor and his travail."

The Prince's stared at her for a second, then he threw his head back and laughed - deep, rolling laughs that carried over the orchard. Morwen colored, wondering what she had said that could earn so much noise. Everyone nearby looked over. She resisted the urge to cover her cheeks to hide the blush.

When the laughter subsided, Prince Thengel sighed happily. "You don't mince words. Perhaps she might have been better off running the household with a free hand…provided the suitors gave up and stopped eating such enormous dinners," Prince Thengel pointed out with a knowing expression. "But you don't seem to make much allowance for love and affection."

Oh.

Morwen supposed she sounded hard-hearted, but she hadn't meant to. And another idea occurred to her. "He can't have loved her very much if a god had to intervene to remind him of home! Thunor's wife grieved for him for twenty years, and he rendered senseless by an enchantress," she replied. "And worse, then she had to mourn all over again when he did truly die."

"Then let us hope that he outlived her," the prince answered with a shrug. "The story doesn't say."

Morwen looked for a sign that he was teasing her again. Perhaps the fresh air made him giddy after being shut up inside for two days, for he certainly seemed different. But at that moment he decided to focus on a bee hovering near his knee and she couldn't tell. Averted eyes were difficult to read.

That raised another question. She asked, "How did she know it was her husband?"

The prince's brows dipped together as he looked up at her again. "What do you mean?"

Morwen pointed to the book. "She hadn't seen him in twenty years. He must have aged and all that magic and adventure must have changed him. How did she recognize him?"

"Oh, that was simple enough," he said with a shrug. "He told her a secret only he would know."

Morwen thought there might be any number of things a man might know about his wife that no one else would. It might be imprudent to ask, but then, she didn't want to wait to find out. "What was that?"

"How to remove the torque around her neck." He held up his hand before she could ask any more questions. "You really ought to read it."

Before Morwen could reply, Beldir appeared at her elbow. "Is that Gildis coming through the trees?"

It was. Morwen stepped back in surprise. Gildis so seldom appeared in the orchard.

"Message came for you," the housekeeper said dourly once she reached them. "It arrived with the carrier who came to take the, er," she gave Morwen a cautious glance, "the item back to Arnach. Well, he gives me this letter along with the wine from Prince Adrahil."

"Adrahil sent it ahead?" Morwen asked, puzzled. Adrahil always supplied wine when he attended Lossemeren, but he never sent it ahead. She felt a premonition tickling her spine, a feeling rather too familiar for her liking.

Morwen took the letter from Gildis. It was rare that she received anything and she recognized the swan seal of Dol Amroth immediately, causing her breath to hitch in her throat as a bad memory choked her. Taking a deep breath, she told herself that if Adrahil had truly awful news, he would come in person. Like he had done last spring.

"Are you well?" Prince Thengel asked. His eyes were narrow as they scrutinized her face.

"That depends on the contents of the letter," she replied quietly.

She broke the blue wax, read the contents, and then stared at the paper in her hand. It announced that Adrahil's plans had changed suddenly on account of his wife's health - nothing to worry about. It simply ended with their apologies, they hoped to see her in Minas Tirith soon, etc., etc.

Would nothing go right this spring? Morwen quickly retracted the question in case the universe decided to answer. She had looked forward to Adrahil coming, she hadn't known how much. After all, the last time she saw Adrahil had been a year ago - when he brought her home after her father's funeral.

"Bad news?" Prince Thengel asked when she folded the letter.

Morwen schooled her expression into something more placid. "Cousin Adrahil and his wife won't be coming," she told them. "Princess Aranel isn't well."

"I knew it as soon as I saw the wine," Gildis muttered.

"A disappointment, to be sure," the Prince said.

"It is," she answered stiffly.

"And you were looking forward to showing him all the improvements you made this year," Gildis said, grousing over the news. "I can't imagine what this Princess Aranel might be suffering that a few weeks in Lossarnach's air couldn't heal."

Morwen agreed, feeling the bitter spike of disappointment. Adrahil would appreciate that she not only kept the roof from falling down around her ears, but that the plantation had flourished - a few trees aside. He knew Bar-en-Ferin almost as well as anyone outside of the valley. She felt rather proud of herself and — well, a little recognition went a long way. But what could she do? Perhaps Aranel hadn't wanted to come in the first place? But that was conjecture and Morwen knew it was unfair to her new cousin.

"Perhaps you could substitute one prince for another?" Prince Thengel suggested. "I would like to see more of your land. That is, if it won't get in the way of your preparations."

How could it when she had a rotation of his own men filling in? Without Adrahil, it simply didn't seem to matter as much what the orchard looked like.

"It is worth seeing," she answered slowly as she tucked the letter away. "I'll take you around myself. Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," he agreed.

Morwen felt mollified, though it didn't supplant the disappointment of missing the one cousin she did like.

"Oh, and I'm to tell you, my lord Prince, that Nanneth says you may tend to your wounded man again," said Gildis, bobbing respectfully like a duck.

"I've been summoned," he said to Morwen, getting up from the grass before helping her up as well.

While Prince Thengel returned to the house with Gildis to see to Guthere, Morwen distracted herself by clipping branches and planning the tour she would give. She wondered what sort of substitute Prince Thengel would make on the day of the feast.

Stars! That reminded her that she would have to deal with Halmir and Hundor without the diluting effect of Adrahil. She hadn't realized until that instant that not only had she hoped to show off her estate, she had hoped to use Adrahil and Aranel as a shield!

* * *

_TBC. Thank you for reading! _

_Thanks again to Lia and Thanwen for critters.  
_


	7. Anarian's Well

Morwen walked a little ways ahead while the prince stopped to read a marker her mother had laid down when this acre of trees had been planted. It gave her a moment to let her voice rest - she'd been talking all afternoon, it felt like. Prince Thengel asked good questions and nodded in the right places, but she wondered if he had known what he'd gotten himself into when he asked to be led around her orchard. She smiled to herself and breathed in the apple blossom scented air. Not one cloud dotted the sky and she hoped the good weather would bleed into tomorrow. Beldir felt optimistic on that score.

She felt guilty for leaving Gildis and Hareth alone to oversee the housecleaning and preparations before the feast, however. But after all, she had promised Prince Thengel a tour in the name of hospitality and it did mean one less body in the way. Cenhelm remained with Guthere, who managed to sit up and demand to review the condition of his horse's care. Thurstan and Gladhon were making progress in the orchard under Beldir's guidance. Now the damage had largely been cleared away to the parts of the orchard out of sight of the pavilion and pathways where the guests would be.

Morwen had gone to sleep the night before feeling much easier about the feast. In fact, she had almost returned to the state of tranquility she remembered before the storm. Nothing could possibly go wrong that hadn't already.

Prince Thengel caught up with her. "Has this land always been in your family?" he asked. "I noticed that the oldest of the years listed on the markers don't go more than perhaps fifteen years back."

"No. Well, sort of." She thought for a moment. "My mother Hirwen, and I are the only two generations to really farm this property. The land has always belonged to the lords of Lossarnach, but then only used as a hunting lodge. What few fruit trees they had were only enough to sustain the household. My parents built it up to what it is now."

"How did Hirwen come by the land?"

"Her parents died when she was a baby and her uncle raised her. That would be Hardang's grandfather, Lord Hathol, you know. When she decided to marry my father, he agreed to lease the land to my parents since my mother refused to live in Minas Tirith where my father had served as a scribe."

"It is difficult to acclimate to a city like Minas Tirith when one is used to a rural environment," Thengel reflected.

Morwen paused. "You say that even coming from Edoras?"

"Especially coming from Edoras." He smiled dryly. "Though it is the chief settlement of Rohan, you can hardly call the rocky outcropping with its wood and thatch and grass a city compared to the likes of the many tiered Minas Tirith. Although, when the sun hits the thatch just right…" His voice trailed off and his eyes seemed to lose focus, seeing inwardly.

"How did you adjust to a larger city?" she prompted when it became apparent he had forgotten her.

Prince Thengel's expression closed a little.

"Forgive me," she said hastily. "I'm prying."

Prince Thengel's shoulders relaxed with effort, though he smiled. "No, no. I'm not used to speaking of Rohan to anyone outside of my guard, that's all. To answer your question, I acclimated because of the kindness of Lord Ecthelion and his excellent father. They were and still are very generous to me." An incredulous expression passed over his face. "Though I can't believe they expected their guest to remain so long with them."

"Is that a habit of yours, my lord?" she asked. "How long will you stay with us? I will have to let Gildis know. And should we expect more of your men? Beldir will have to build an addition."

Prince Thengel laughed. "If I stay too much longer, Ecthelion will send in his hounds to chase me out. He want me in Ithilien before long."

The mention of Ithilien reminded Morwen of Hardang, which she did not like. He must have seen it in her expression because he cleared his throat and quickly changed the subject.

"Now, how long until we reach the end of this sea of apple trees?" he asked her.

"I promise this is the last acre," Morwen told him as she led the way up the path toward the westernmost end of the orchard. She laughed as the prince gazed around in disbelief at the rows and rows of trees. Of course, there were no apples yet, but the trees were making up for it with delicate blossoms. But the ever present hum of invisible bees and the sunlight all promised future bounty.

Prince Thengel had trouble hiding the daze in his eyes. "I had no idea there were so many kinds of apples."

"How many did you think there were?"

"Three," he said, ticking them off on his fingers, "red ones, green ones, yellow ones."

She scoffed. "But didn't you wonder about the dappled skins, or the darker or lighter shades? The textures? Different species don't even _taste_ the same."

He held up his hands, pleading ignorance. "I simply haven't given apples much thought, except how best to skin one."

She laughed again. He had been an attentive listener as she described the fruit trees for the better part of three hours. In some ways, she thought she ought to be thankful for this switch in princes. Adrahil never would have listened to her droning on for half as long.

"The apples that will grow beyond this marker are a cross specie of trees from Numenor. Those trees produced small, bitter fruit in our soil, but when a cutting from the Numenorian tree grafted with a native, it produced a lovely, sweet fruit we call the Hyarnustar Gold."

"I will be sure to mention the Hyarnustar Gold's origin in conversation when I need to impress someone at court. I didn't realize how little I knew about apple lore," he mused with a slanted, self-deprecating smile. "My education needs improving."

Morwen better recognized the signs of teasing now and left comfortable enough giving it back. "If you weren't the toast of Merethrond before, you certainly will be now." She replied. "Though I'm sure you know many things worth knowing other than apple lore. In fact, my knowledge of horses, for instance, probably matches your for apples."

"To be honest, my own knowledge of horse lore is not as complete as that of my countrymen. My education took a different turn after arriving in Gondor," he admitted wryly. "But for the sake of interest, just how many breeds do you think there are?"

Her brow wrinkled as she thought, and then a crooked smile appeared when she couldn't hold it back any longer. "Well…there are brown horses, black horses, and…white?"

"Gray." Prince Thengel grimaced. "We are evenly matched in ignorance," he said. "But what we do know seems fitting to our distinct spheres."

"You put it well, in a way that flatters us both," she said dryly as he lifted a branch for her to duck under. It was the last tree before a short lawn that led to the wall at the end of the orchard. They shook the petals out of their hair.

"Ah, we've reached orchard's end. I didn't think it possible. I completely underestimated the size of this place."

"Well, it is large enough to keep us fed, timely in paying our rent, with enough leftover to sell," she replied.

"I noticed two horses in your stables besides our own. Do you ever ride in these parts? It would save you a step."

"Sometimes," she said. "Though I don't usually have the leisure to go far from home. I ride around the plantation and to exercise our horses, but we keep them mainly for the carts we send to market."

"Where do you send your produce?" he asked politely.

Morwen wondered that he wasn't tired at the sound of her voice by now, but she appreciated the questions. "The majority of it is divided between the settlement at Arnach and Minas Tirith. A small portion will go from the port at Arnach for shipping to our agents in Pelargir where we vie with the farms in Belfalas and Lamedon for custom. Fortunately, neither of the two fiefdoms can best us for fresh produce in Minas Tirith."

"But you must compete with the farms and orchards on the Pelennor."

Morwen's sour expression showed what she thought about the quality of produce from those farmers. "Grains and legumes, mostly, which doesn't affect me," she said with her nose in the air. "The warden in the House of Healing believes the produce grown on the Pelennor is polluted by bad air from the dark lands and I agree. You won't find fresher air or cleaner water than in Lossarnach."

Prince Thengel glanced down at his boots and smiled knowingly. "I doubt the elements in Lossarnach would dare to be anything but superior in every way."

"No, indeed." She sniffed.

They stopped at the wall. There was a little arched door with an iron bolt on it.

"What is this door for?" he asked.

"For me," she told him. "The latest of my improvements."

He lifted his eyebrows, waiting for her to continue.

"I know it doesn't make sense to install a door on the opposite end of the orchard wall. It makes it easier for thieves to get in without being noticed if they can pick the lock. The orchard is my life," she confided, "but sometimes I long for trees and flowers that don't grow in tidy rows."

"That I can well understand."

"But once I've spent all morning in the orchard, I can't abide having to walk all the way back to the gate to get out and then have to walk all the way around again to get to the forest paths." She laughed at herself. "If you aren't too tired, I could show you some of the walks in the valley. There's a famous waterfall not too far, but I don't want to wear you out."

He looked offended by the suggestion that he might be tired out.

She bit her cheek and he seemed to understand.

"Ah, you were giving me a way to back out politely if I wanted to be elsewhere."

She nodded. "Or if your guard wanted you back."

Prince Thengel bowed as if accepting an important invitation. "I would very much like to go on, my lady," he said a bit formally, though he smiled. "This is just the sort of holiday I wanted."

"Good," she replied. She would have thought badly of him had he decided to turn around.

"And exactly the sort of holiday to give Cenhelm a stomach ache. The trees." Prince Thengel shuddered.

Morwen grinned. "Poor man. He seems very protective."

"Nobody wants to write home that the crown prince was brained or ambushed on his watch, you see."

"Understandable." She turned around and produced a small key from the pouch hanging from her belt and unlocked the bolt.

When Thengel passed through she locked the door behind them. A thought struck her.

"Do you have many orchards in Rohan?"

"I dare say they do," he said vaguely.

"May I ask how long was it since you left?"

His brow knit together while the counted the years in his head. "Almost twenty years ago just after I turned eighteen."

She felt the blood in her cheeks run cold. "Twenty years?" Why, that made him nearly thirty-eight! He was closer in age to Hareth.

"Stars," she said.

"Were you alive then?" he asked with a wry smile.

"Of course," she said, indignantly because it was only barely true and it made her feel like a child. She would have been just learning to walk while he had come of age and left home.

"Why did you leave when you were so young?"

He stared. "You don't know?"

She shook her head. "I know very little about what happens beyond Lossarnach, let alone Rohan. All I know is that your country lies on the other side of the mountain, that it boasts of its horses, and that I will probably never see it."

"It is good to know that the people of the country to which the Rohirrim have sworn the Oath of Eorl take an active interest in Rohan," he said with irony, though there was nothing of acid in it.

She accepted the rebuke with grace. Her disinterest in the books and the world at large had been the only criticism Randir had ever had of only daughter, and even that he had managed to find endearing.

"It takes all my brains to run this place. As we have not required the Oath since my grandfather's day, you will have to forgive me for paying attention to matters nearer to home."

"You have a very small world," he observed. His tone was neutral.

"I thank the stars for that. I am not one of your great people. What would I do with a great big world?"

"Fill it with fruit trees."

She grinned, then led the way down a well-worn path into the trees. "That's a happy thought." Then more seriously, she said, "Twenty years is a long sojourn. Have you never gone back?"

"No. I came to Gondor indefinitely," was all he said. When she didn't look satisfied with that answer, he added blandly, "A lesser sentence for disrespecting the king in his hall."

"So they sent you away?" she asked, incredulous. "For that?"

He nodded, looked ill at ease. "The peace of the Mark depends upon the utmost respect and undivided loyalty to its lord. My actions - words really — had threatened to weaken the structure that even now keeps the country intact."

"But you were young when this happened. We all say foolish things at times. What could you have possibly done to bring down an entire country?" she said lightly.

He stared at her and she blushed. The question had been entirely imprudent.

"I'm sorry," she said, having put her foot in her mouth a second time. But how did people get to know one another if they couldn't ask questions without it landing in a hornet's nest?

He waved away her apology. "No matter."

Morwen began to regret not returning to the house. The prince had been so convivial it never occurred to her how little she knew about him - and how much that might make a difference. It must have shown on her face because he gave her a look that seemed half-resigned, half-defiant.

"Still, it hasn't been all bad. I have an advantage that no other prince or king of Rohan has had, a thorough knowledge of our ally - from Gondor's language, martial arts, justice system. The majority of the Rohirrim do not speak Westron, let alone the elven tongues. And how many of them can say they have traveled by ship down the Anduin or fought pirates in Pelargir? Perhaps no one since my uncles' day when the Rohirrim fought and died to defend the crossing at Poros."

"Your uncles?"

Prince Thengel nodded. "Folcred and Fastred. They were twins, King Fengel's elder brothers." He added somberly, "Folcred would have been king had he lived. Ill luck, that." He shook himself free of dark thoughts. "They are buried in a mound near Poros to remind the mercenaries from Umbar with whom they are reckoning."

Morwen, who didn't quite understand the undercurrent of Prince Thengel's musings, turned on him with renewed interest. "Did you really fight pirates?"

He smiled at her enthusiasm. "Yes, when I was younger. They've gone into hibernation these last ten years or so. Ecthelion has turned his attention almost entirely to the east now."

"Stars," she murmured. "Your life sounds like one of those adventurous tales in the book you read from yesterday."

He laughed bitterly. "Adventures don't feel like adventures when you're in them."

"No, I suppose not." Then she added, "I wasn't trying to make light of what happened in your past. It's just so unusual in families to quarrel to the point of ostracizing. Nothing like that happens in Lossarnach."

"I'd count that a blessing. Those were bitter years living under King Fengel's roof. Arriving in Gondor was like getting a new lease on life." He paused. "At least after it stopped feeling like a punishment."

"You must miss your home terribly."

"I've grown accustomed to being away."

Morwen looked around her woods with its early wildflowers and the red squirrels and imagined having to leave them behind. She wouldn't do it. Even if her father was a tyrant, nothing could induce her to leave Imloth Melui for good. Never. This was home.

"I suppose Minas Tirith must feel like home now too," she thought.

"I try not to think of it that way," he admitted. "Minas Tirith, no matter how long I live there, will always be a temporary abode. Best to remember that."

"Then you must long to go back to Rohan, to feel at home again."

His face clouded over. "I don't know. How does the poet say it? _ '…I mete and dole, unequal laws unto a savage race that hoard, and sleep, and know not me.'" _

She looked puzzled and half afraid he would ask her to name the poet.

He smiled, a little sadly. "You asked yesterday how Thunor's wife would know him after twenty years. Well, I'm not entirely sure how well Rohan and I will recognize one another after so long."

Morwen's ears burned, recalling what she had said and mortified that he had taken it to heart in a way she could not have anticipated.

"While I live here I am a stranger in a strange land. But I fear when I return to Rohan, it won't be any different." He looked wistfully at the trees. "I remember Firienwood had trees like this. Gray-green bark, smooth to the touch, and leaves like elf ears. What are they called?"

"It is only a simple beech," she said, thankful to talk about something else. "I love them. Don't they grow anywhere else in Rohan?"

"I can't remember. Perhaps not. But then, I'd never bothered to learn their names when I was a boy as Rohan is mostly grassland."

There was a look on his face that disconcerted her, like the expression of someone who is lost. She recognized it because it was the look on her face in the mirror one morning when she realized she couldn't remember the particular timbre in her father's voice when he would wish her good morning. The sort of thing she never expected to forget but once it was gone, the loss of it left her vulnerable and drifting.

"The tree that fell on Guthere looked like these."

"The beech's roots are shallow compared to other trees," she said, rambling to cover up the moment and allow him to recover. "Our valley protects them from eastern gusts and in this climate they grow quite tall, but once they rot…"

Morwen led the prince up a switchback trail that climbed up the valley walls. The trees thinned, allowing more sunlight to reach the forest floor and the rose and blackberry bushes growing there. Prince Thengel's attention was arrested by something in the bushes. He crouched among the ferns to observe small, white flowers that grew on individual slender stems.

"What are these called?" he asked.

"Cenedril. It is said they reflect the starlight."

Instead of picking the flower to observe it then throw it away, Prince Thengel gently bent the stem toward him. "These have one more petal, but their shape reminds me of a blossom in my land called symbelminë."

"It has a pretty name." She tried it once and found the word fit comfortably on her tongue. "Does it grow on the plains or in the forests like cenedril?"

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "It grows on the barrows of the kings."

She frowned. "That seems strangely specific."

The prince shrugged. Then he pointed to a carpeting of feathery green creepers with tiny white, bell-shaped flowers. "What are these called?"

"Those are called weeds." Morwen laughed at his bemused expression.

"I was beginning to think Lossarnach was above anything as common as weeds," he said with an arch expression.

"No, indeed," she replied with her nose in the air. "Though our weeds are uncommonly pretty and fragrant."

He conceded with a bow of his head.

Morwen began to rise when suddenly she felt the pressure of his hand on her arm. When her eyes shot to his face, he held a finger to his lips. He nodded toward the line of trees. Whatever he heard, or thought he heard, she could not detect. But she remembered that he was used to moving stealthily through thick woods and listening for enemies. Her eyes strained to see through the murk beneath the canopy.

A herd of does materialized out of the shadows, wandering peacefully down the valley slope in the shadows of the thicket. One doe with her twins stepped timidly through the undergrowth on the other side of the blackberry bushes where Morwen and Thengel were crouching beside the cenedril.

"I was told the valley had a deer problem," he murmured. "Now I believe it. There must be a score here."

"Why do you think we built a wall around the orchard?" she whispered back. "Still, they are beautiful."

"And appetizing," he replied deadpan.

Morwen nudged him in the ribs without thinking. The doe stopped nibbling the ferns, turning the gentle force of her round dark eyes on them. For a moment they were frozen in a tableau. Then with a graceful leap, she hightailed away with her offspring. The herd followed suit, bounding away with a whisper of disturbed leaves and the soft pad of hooves over bracken.

"Come," she said. "We still have a ways to go."

He helped her rise when the deer had disappeared into the thicket. The trail continued to climb. Morwen pointed out the different flowers they passed. Another sound began to drown out the birdsong, and the prince stopped to listen, glancing around the forest.

"Is that a waterfall I hear?"

Morwen nodded. "We are almost there."

They climbed mossy steps cut into the rock that came out alongside a cleft in the valley wall till their legs burned with the effort. A stream of water as wide as a barn cascaded down into a dark, foaming pool below them. The mist shimmered in the air. They stopped to stare down into the pool, resting before the final climb.

At the top of the stair, Morwen stepped onto a stone platform partially suspended over the cliff. The crest of the waterfall towered above them and to the right of the platform. A well had been built into the rock alcove over a deep fissure in the mountainside. It collected the trickling runoff from the top of the falls where time had worn smaller fissures into the stone. A birch tree grew beside the wall of the well. It was covered in ribbons.

Morwen crossed the floor to the well, leaning over the lip to look down into the deep water gathered there. A few old birch leaves drifted across the rippling surface. She saw her face refracted within it. Then Prince Thengel's rippling image appeared next to hers.

"Do people come all the way up here to draw water?" he asked.

"No one draws water here," she told him. "It is a sacred well. Although that didn't stop my cousin Hundor from trying to push me in once."

"Older cousins?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, surprised. "How did you know?"

Prince Thengel leaned against the well, a sage look in his eyes. "I have two older sisters and several older cousins on my mother's side. For my fifth birthday they pushed me down the stream that runs from the foot of Meduseld. I rolled and splashed all the way down to the palisade."

Morwen gaped at him. "Weren't they worried about drowning the crown prince?"

"Not as worried as I." Then he said, "Tell me about this well."

"They say King Anorian's wife built it in his memory after he fell in the battle against the Dark Lord."

Prince Thengel stopped leaning against the stone. "Is it true?" he asked, peering down into the watery depths.

"Who can say? These stories never seem to make it into the official histories unless the women were queens. Evil cat queens like Beruthial or else hopeless tragic victims like Tar Miriel. If the rest of us are remembered for anything, it's by word of mouth."

Prince Thengel fished out a sodden leaf. "Do you want to be remembered?"

"I don't want to be forgotten," she told him. Then she shrugged. "But I don't like cats."

"Neither did Beruthiel, they say," he replied.

"Oh, to be that bad would take an awful lot of work - work I'd rather spend in my orchard." She grinned and he returned it.

Thengel approached the tree beside the well. "What are these ribbons for?"

"Memorials for loved ones. This one," she said, fingering a fresh green and white ribbon, "is for Hardang. Then she stood on her tiptoes to touch another ribbon higher in the branches. "This yellow one is for my mother - and this one for my father." She touched each one in turn, lingering over the frayed ends of a silver and blue ribbon.

She stepped back and surveyed the tree solemnly.

"I understand your father died only recently," said Thengel.

"He died almost a year ago. It was only two days after we celebrated _Lossemeren_. He went to Minas Tirith to stay with my cousins while he did research in the Archives. The healers say his heart seized in his sleep." She swallowed painfully. "Adrahil rode all the way back to Lossarnach to tell me."

"I'm sorry."

Her hand fluttered helplessly. "At least it wasn't a prolonged illness," she said. It sounded practiced.

He shrugged. "In my experience, the length of the illness doesn't determine the depth of grief. It sounds as though you were very close." He said the words like his tongue wasn't quite familiar with them.

"You have to understand that my father was one of the rare men who knew how to delight in other people. You didn't have to do or be anything, just exist, and he simply thought the best of you. I miss him." She shook her head and turned away from the tree.

The prince shielded his eyes before glancing up at the sky. "The sun rode high in the sky before we set out for this place and I notice it sets early in the valley."

"You are correct. We'd best start back." She led the way across the platform toward the stair. When they were back among the trees and flowers she turned back to him. "Now that you have really seen something of Imloth Melui, field and forest, perhaps you will have a better share in our celebration tomorrow."

"I look forward to it," Thengel replied politely. "How does Imloth Melui celebrate spring?"

"With feasting, drinking, and dancing."

He smiled down at her. "That sounds suitably merry."

"It's a wonderful time. The whole valley comes together." A shadow crossed over Morwen's face. She swallowed, trying to decide how to say what needed to be said.

"Are you well, Lady Morwen?" the prince asked.

"Yes." She bit her lip. "Only, well, you will meet Hardang's brothers tomorrow. I'll warn you I don't know what to expect. Their grief is still so fresh."

Prince Thengel inclined his head. "Duly noted. But let me assure you that if they are half the men Hardang was, they will conduct themselves with decorum and won't allow their grief to overshadow the festival."

Half the men Hardang was? Oh stars.

…

Thengel found Cenhelm in the study when he returned, sitting in a triangle of light coming in through the window before it sank behind the valley wall. The older man looked saintly in the light as he scribbled away at a sheet of paper.

"Well, Cenhelm, and what are you doing?"

"Good afternoon, my lord. I am faithfully writing my report to your uncle." He signed his name at the bottom and underscored it with enough force to cause the nib to screech against the paper. "Someone has to let him know you're alive every now and again."

"Oh." Thengel fended off a stab of guilt. "You aren't telling him where we are?"

Cenhelm stared up at him under the long, flyaway hairs of his eyebrows. "I swore an oath not to disclose your location until after a certain unblessed event passed. My word ought to be good enough for you."

"It is."

Cenhelm put the pen down, blotted the paper, and folded the missive before tucking it into a leather pouch. "And how did the prince enjoy his outing?"

"Just fine," he answered slowly.

"Just?"

Thengel ran his finger across a line of book spines on the nearest shelf. "Only, perhaps not wholly satisfactory. She's a singular individual. To know her, one has to know her orchard. It's an odd way to make friends."

"With all due respect, my prince," said Cenhelm, rising. "You're twice her age. Why would she want to befriend you when there's young, handsome men like Gladhon around?"

"Is that why he was so keen to work for her?" Thengel asked more sharply than he meant to sound. The idea didn't sit well with him at all. It seemed…duplicitous.

"I couldn't say. Perhaps you would learn more by observing them together, or you could ask Gladhon right out."

Thengel exhaled. "I'm certainly learning more about her by wading through all the information about the plantation. She's proud, arch, young, opinionated, nosy, limited in her knowledge of the world…"

Cenhelm's pale eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Truly? I have found Lady Morwen to be charming, compassionate, levelheaded, industrious. Beautiful even, in a dark, southern sort of way. But young? It will take years for her to amend that blemish on her character." Cenhelm shook his head with mock sadness. "It's quite the list of defects you've mentioned, my prince."

Thengel stared blankly at his guard. "Defects? I was only describing her. Besides, you didn't let me finish."

"I beg your pardon, my lord. I didn't realize we were entering her description into a bestiary."

"Alright, be sarcastic. Anyway. I doubt she'd have the patience for Gladhon. Once the poetry wears off she wouldn't find him working an hour in the orchard. She wouldn't stand for laziness. Her property isn't anything to sneeze at," Thengel mused as he passed to the other side of the desk and sat down in the seat Cenhelm vacated. "It took hours to cross the entire orchard. I am no longer surprised she pressed Gladhon and Thurstan into service. It's impressive what's she's managed to do and maintain. Her father's only been dead a year and by all accounts her kinsmen have have left her to manage for herself."

"Most impressive."

Sensing he had exhausted the topic with Cenhelm, Thengel asked, "Anything to report on Guthere?"

"Only that he's waiting for you to nurse him back to greater health. Béma help me if I have to recite one more riddle to keep him entertained. I need an airing. Maybe I'll take a look at this impressive plantation while I'm at it."

"Stretch your legs, then. Mind, you'd better pace yourself. We're all invited to this feast tomorrow so don't fill up on blossoms and scenic walks tonight."

Cenhelm bowed and left, leaving Thengel in the empty study to wonder about the day. The truth was, he knew, that he had found nothing unsatisfactory about Lady Morwen. She was all the things he described. He found her pleasant and rooted to home. It almost seemed as though the valley and the lady could not exist apart from one another. A good thing - not everyone could thrive unfettered the way he had. Or had he?

She'd gotten him talking about Rohan - trying to remember Rohan - which inevitably brought his father from out of the darker corners of his mind into the fore and that always left a bitter taste in Thengel's mouth. And so much had been forgotten in the interim. One of these days he would have to face the shadows again.

But it didn't have to be this day.

Deciding to shove those unpleasant recollections firmly back into the shadows, he picked up the book of northern tales from the corner of the desk and went to join Guthere.

* * *

AN: Thank you to Thanwen for kindly reviewing the chapter and offering advice!

Thengel's quotation comes from Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem, "Ulysses."


	8. Lossemeren

Lossemeren arrived with the sound of shutters flying open. Morwen cracked a bleary eye open and saw Gildis standing over her bed in the pale glow of early morning light streaming in through the window.

"Oh no," Morwen groaned, throwing the blanket over her head.

"I can see you, my lady, with or without the blanket. Get up. I've come to wage war."

"Please Gildis…"

"I've locked the door. No one will come to your rescue and there's no use begging. I'm heartless."

"Oh stars."

Morwen threw the blanket off and sat up with a groan.

"If you let me attend to you more often it wouldn't be such a pain," Gildis groused as she rummaged in Morwen's wardrobe.

"So you've said." Morwen yawned. "But I can't see why it's any use during the rest of the year."

"Sit down at the table," Gildis ordered. "There's toast and tea. Hurry up, I've got other things to do this morning besides prune you into a semblance of femininity."

Morwen obeyed. After all, having breakfast in her room was the only enjoyable part of this annual ordeal.

"Have you seen Beldir yet?" she asked.

"Of course," said the housekeeper. "He was up before any of you. He's got Gundor and the lads bringing the wains up with the tables from the barn."

Morwen nodded, absentmindedly chewing on her bread.

"I should have looked in here sooner." Gildis shuffled the clothes around, loud in her disapproval of the offerings. "You've worn the same dress for years. You might have had a pretty saffron gown from that cloth you received from Arnach."

Morwen stared into the gaping wardrobe and yawned. "There's nothing wrong with my mother's dress."

"Do you know what's wrong with you, my lady?" said Gildis as she pulled out a faded blue gown. "You have no pride in personal appearance."

Morwen silently added that blemish on her character to her lack of scholarship. Ignorant and dowdy. She grinned at herself in the mirror on the table.

"Fortunately, you have some natural beauty. It only needs to be beaten back a bit."

Gildis spent the next hour waging war on Morwen's eyebrows and hair. She washed it, trimmed it, twisting Morwen's hair, then raking it out again with a fine-toothed comb that hit ever snag and snarl with painful disapproval.

"Here, clean your nails while I finish combing." Gildis handed Morwen a small brush with an ivory handle soaking in a dish of soapy water. She picked up the brush and studied it.

"Is this Adrahil's brush?" She couldn't think how something this fine would end up at Bar-en-Ferin unless her cousin left it behind.

"It was your father's."

"Oh. I didn't realize he cleaned beneath his nails."

Gildis harrumphed. "At least someone in this family did once."

Morwen scrubbed her hands, saying, "You see why I couldn't do this every day. It takes far too much time. Besides, I'd be in the orchard for about two seconds and all the dirt would be—"

Gildis plunged a cold, wet cloth in Morwen's ear while she had been looking down and away from the mirror.

"What are you doing?" Morwen cried, cringing from the soggy feeling.

"Cleaning you up before a cherry tree starts growing out your ear."

Morwen snatched the cloth away before a second attempt could be made. Water trickled down her wrist as she held the cloth out of Gildis's reach.

"My ears are perfectly clean and you know it." She tossed the cloth onto the table. "What's gotten into, Gildis? You're been victimizing me all morning."

Gildis started on Morwen's hair again, with her nose screwed up with displeasure. "You're the lady of the house now," she answered with a sniff. "I knew it in my head. But, well, it's seems real today. If you don't _look _like a lady worthy of Randir and Hirwen's memory, it won't be my fault. Now stand up and take off that dirty shift."

Morwen obeyed, sobered by the mention of her parents. Gildis gave her a new shift to put on before they pulled the heavy fabric of the old blue dress over her head.

Morwen thought she was going to die when Gildis began cinching her into the blue dress that used to belong to her mother. The sleeves were tight on her arms.

"Stars," she groaned as she tried to move them. The fabric constricted her that she wondered if she could raise a glass to her lips. The clothes she wore around the property were loose and woven to allow the air through. This dress would never do.

"You know, I hear from my sister in Arnach that dresses aren't tied in this way anymore. It's not a bad reason to have a new dress made up," Gildis pointed out.

"It fit comfortably last year. What happened?"

"It comes from working outside with the men," Gildis huffed. "What sort of lady are you with arms like those?"

"A functional lady - which is the only sort of lady we can afford around here," Morwen wheezed. She liked her arms. They looked useful - not like Gildis's toothpicks, for instance. Although those toothpicks had done a masterful job squeezing the breath out of Morwen just then.

"Well, turn around and survey the damage," Gildis grumbled, gesturing toward the mirror.

She studied herself, wondering if she looked as pinched as she felt. Certainly this dress had fit perfectly well a year ago when she last wore it. The change of clothes beside, she couldn't see the difference between how she looked before Gildis's torture and after, except that her hair fell loose to her waist in the sort of waves you see on a lake during a gentle breeze rather than a storm. Her face had mottled over from abuse and now her ear dripped water.

"This dress is too tight," she grumbled, tugging at the bodice where it pinched her chest, such as she had.

"Stop tugging at it before you pop a seam. I don't have the time to sew you into one of the nicer bed sheets."

Morwen took one last look in the mirror. Honestly, she couldn't tell the difference in how she looked in this dress or in any other.

"Well?" she asked Gildis.

Gildis gave her a critical look over. "It'll do," she said ominously.

Morwen glanced over her shoulder in the mirror. "Do for what?"

The housekeeper pressed her lips together in a firm line.

"_Gildis." _

"Never mind. You get out to the orchard before your guests arrive."

…

The kitchen radiated heat from the cook fire and from the bodies vying for places at the long center table or in the cupboards and counters. Morwen pressed through to leave her plate and mug in a pot of hot water, which already contained the plates and mugs for half the household. There were a few shouts of good morning thrown her way, but mostly everyone was too busy to notice the mistress of the house. And if truth were told, Hareth was the mistress in the kitchen and Morwen was happy to leave it to the cook. She preferred to reign under the trees.

Sneaking out a back door, Morwen ran into Ioneth, who had spilled a jar of oil onto the ground. The costly oil darkened the gravel and Morwen felt a little dizzy looking at it. Ioneth had another cradled in her arm, which was in equal danger of spilling over as she leaned down to clean up the other.

"Ioneth, what are you doing?" Morwen asked as she knelt down right the jar.

"I'm supposed to bring the oil down to the boys to be put up in the lanterns," Ioneth sniffed. She had the perpetually throbbing voice of a downtrodden girl on the cusp of womanhood. Only woman was a long time in coming for the maid, Morwen thought. "They're awfully heavy."

"Here, I'll help you carry one since we're going the same way." She wanted to take both, but the girl would get in trouble with Gildis if she returned to the house without having carried out the housekeeper's orders. She had to carry the jar awkwardly in order to keep the oil away from her dress.

Ioneth beamed. "Thank you, my lady."

When they were out of earshot of the house, Ioneth walked closer to Morwen's side and whispered, "You were gone with the prince for a terrible long time yesterday."

Morwen adjusted the awkward jar in her other hand. "I suppose so."

"Do you think he's very old?"

"No."

Ioneth looked aghast at Morwen. "Truly?"

Morwen glanced down at Ioneth. "How old are you, then?"

"Fourteen," she answered, throwing back her shoulders, which only accentuated the flatness of her chest.

"Well, naturally you think he's old," Morwen reflected dryly. "You're still a child."

Ioneth pulled a face she didn't think Morwen could see. They walked on a while under in silence until they reached the birch grove. Morwen thought she saw a hint of gold hair among the green leaves. There was bower that her father had built within the grove and it looked as though someone was retreating in that direction.

"Ioneth, have you seen any of the Prince's men today?"

"No, my lady. They scare me to death, so I keep out of their way. Well, I used to be scared of the Prince, but all he does is read those stuffy, old books." Then she asked, "Weren't you bored talking to him?"

"No," said Morwen. "He's led a very interesting life, even if he does like to read. Did you know he's fought pirates?"

"Pirates! I bet he's making up stories. He's too old to fight pirates," Ioneth mused.

"I told you, he isn't old. I'm certain he doesn't tell tales. We talked about many things and I find him very pleasant." And she had enjoyed it, despite the few snags in the conversation when she asked more than she ought to have. It seemed the more Ioneth deemed it impossible for Morwen to enjoy Prince Thengel's company, the more she knew that she had.

From the way Ioneth's nose wrinkled, it seemed that a pleasant man was a death knell. "He's not handsome like Gladhon," Ioneth mused. "I don't like his foreign coloring one bit."

"Ioneth!" Morwen warned, "You're overstepping yourself."

But Ioneth remained oblivious. "Could you find him attractive? I suppose you only think of Lord Halmir, since he sends you such nice presents. I would. I like presents."

"What?"

"Hareth says Lord Halmir wants to be your sweetheart and that's why he sends you presents."

"Listen to me, Ioneth," Morwen scolded, "Hareth says quite a bit of things she shouldn't. Repeating them makes it worse."

Ioneth blinked. "Even if she's right?"

Morwen resisted the urge to upend the jar of oil on Ioneth's head. She took a deep, calming breath. "Right or wrong, it's impertinent."

"Still, I think she's right. Boys always send presents when they like a girl."

Morwen swallowed a groan. Ioneth had dogged determination, whether it be dodging chores or creating a make believe romance for Morwen. "Halmir isn't a boy. He's grown up and sensible." She crossed her fingers in the folds of her skirt as she said the last bit.

She walked a little ahead of Ioneth to prevent any more of the kitchen gossip falling on her ears. Soon, they were greeted by the mottled dogs of uncertain breeding that had caught the festival spirit and fed off the energy of the house in preparation. They loped before her down the greenway, a lane overshadowed by ancient beeches and carpeted in flowers, that led east through the plantation toward the road that served the valley or curved northwest deeper into her orchards. Morwen followed its path to the western acres where Beldir and the men were setting up for the feast.

The sun had fully crested the eastern ridge, casting its rays deep within the foothills. Morwen sucked in a breath as the light caught on the white and pink ribbons of blossoming wild cherry trees spilling down from the hills like streams running through fields of green. She allowed herself a moment longer of quiet contemplation while Ioneth trudged on ahead, no doubt imagining all the presents she would like to receive.

When the dogs barked after a rabbit, Morwen moved on. The dogs rushed ahead of her, kicking up turf and daffodils in their haste. After a quarter of a mile, the beeches fell away before a stone fence covered in moss and vines.

Morwen stepped inside and entered a world of fragrance and light. The cherry trees were columns in an arcade that Yavanna herself in the Uttermost West wouldn't turn away from easily. Morwen blinked away the blossoms blown down in the breeze.

In the early years of their marriage, Morwen's mother and father had built a raised pavilion in the midst of the cherry orchard. The dais seated the hosts and their guests of honor while the people of the house, their neighbors and often guests from Minas Tirith would picnic under the trees while the blossoms showered around them.

As she neared the pavilion she began to see the path markers and hanging lanterns. Benches had been brought down and somewhere she thought she heard the sound of wood scraping against wood, which signified the trestle tables being unloaded from Beldir's wagon.

Several of the tables had been set up already in lines along the path while the first line of trees stood like sentinels behind them. Blossoms were already scattered over the tops and carpeted the ground. They only lacked the table dressings and there would be no other ornament but the cherry petals. Nothing else was needed.

Morwen spotted Beldir as he directed Gundor, the cook's son, and other boys of the household in arranging the tables just so.

The dogs knew better than to get in Beldir's way. They tore off after a flock of blackbirds hopping around the grass in search of worms. They rose up into the air like a dark net and flew into the trees while the dogs snapped at nothing.

Beldir saw Morwen first and strode over to her side.

"What do you think?" he asked by way of greeting.

Morwen gave them all a warm smile. "You worked quickly. Everything seems to be in order—"

One of the boys shouted a curse after a table leg came down on his toe. Gladhon, who was working among the boys, came to the unfortunate boy's aid, lifting the table away and telling off the lads for being careless. Beldir's hands clenched and Morwen decided to leave them to their work - and their scolding.

Ioneth and Morwen split the work of filling the lanterns with oil to be lit when the sun went down. The task proved difficult because of her sleeves, especially among the higher lanterns. When she finished, Morwen turned down a row of trees toward the dais. Four high-backed chairs had been set up - three less than last year. There were no chairs for her father's side. One would go to Prince Thengel, her guest. Ferneth and Hardang would not appear, nor Adrahil and Randir. One for Morwen in the center. Only two chairs were left for her mother's side of the family where there had been four. She felt a pang in her chest. Hardang had been fifteen years her senior, but he had been the closest to her in friendship. He had married a woman from Arnach, Ferneth, whom Morwen had liked but didn't know all that well. She had just given birth to a son and wouldn't be coming. Hardang was dead. That left his brothers, Halmir and Hundor.

Growing up she had thought of the three brothers as the soldier, the shadow, and the spy. Hirwen favored Hardang, who was something like a much older brother to Morwen. Halmir was ten years older than she and had spent most of his time of late in Minas Tirith studying military theory and rhetoric, meaning to advance one day into the Steward's council. Halmir had been something of a favorite with her father, though Morwen had found little use for him. Hundor was only three years older than Morwen, the doomed third brother. He wore it like a badge, she thought. Her memories of him were vague glimpses of him spying on the servants or his brothers, then running off to tell tales.

_Family_, she thought. Odd that the relations nearest to her in proximity felt the most distant.

Feeling suddenly depressed despite the sunshine filtering through the blossoms and fresh green leaves, she went in search of something else to do. She had just made it to the gate when the dogs returned from the other side of the orchard like black and white blurs, barking madly.

Hareth lead a train of kitchen attendants, heavily burdened with hampers of food.

…

Midhel and her husband were the first guests to approach Morwen's gate. They were famous in the valley for their dyes and for spinning yarn using anything from sheep's' fleece to dogs' fur. But before Morwen could welcome Midhel, they were all rushed by a host of children of various sizes. Morwen recognized one blur of tousled hair and dirty clothes as the small boy who aided in Guthere's surgery. Nanneth the healer followed behind the brood with the littlest one hanging from a sling around her shoulders and another two toddlers holding her by the hands.

"I hope Hareth's been busy in the kitchen. Nanneth's brought half the valley to be fed. Again." Midhel huffed as she stalked off after her husband. She had but one grown son who now lived in Minas Tirith.

Nanneth grunted in response. Morwen remembered the old lady's uncanny, good hearing. The old woman garbled a greeting to Morwen and then also passed inside. Morwen wondered why she never saw any of Nanneth's children. But then, the vast quantities of grandchildren probably explained the matter.

The cottagers nearest to Bar-en-Ferin along the river began to arrive. They carried baskets of food and blankets. She made especially sure to speak to the families of beekeepers. Then the cottagers gave way to the families who lived deeper in the valley where the trees were oldest, woodcutters for generations whose ancestors had been refugees from Ithilien. These families kept to themselves, except during the harvest when the wives and children worked for Morwen in exchange for some of the bounty.

Strolling grandly behind the train of guests, the valley's infamous artist arrived, fully clothed and temporarily free of goats, with a flat, wrapped parcel tucked under his arm. With his free hand, he reached for Morwen's and kissed it. City manners, she thought.

"Be welcome, Teitherion."

"Lady Morwen, I've brought you a gift," he said, whipping the canvas out from under his arm and hastily unwrapping it for her to view. "For allowing me to sit in your orchard with my paints."

Morwen tried to make sense of the erratic brush, oily strokes. "Oh, it's a…it's…defies description," she said.

"Exactly." He beamed.

Teitherion held up the painting proudly, making sure anyone passing by could get a full view. "It's somewhat autobiographical. I'll just leave it with Gildis, shall I?"

"Yes, thank you."

Teitherion shot off in search of Gildis. Morwen waited until he was beyond earshot to exhale heavily.

Next, the farrier who traveled a circuit across Lossarnach for work appeared, smelling of horse and leather. He was followed by the watchman who guarded the greenway from dishonest peddlers and who played the part of a pinder to catch stray animals. A trapper, the rope maker, a potter and his wife. The smith, the thatcher, the draymen. Morwen made a point of welcoming the costermonger from Arnach who always gave her the best prices.

She pretended not to notice when Ioneth smuggled in a goatherd she didn't know. The miller family of unnumbered daughters had their eyes on the billier's family of troll-sized sons and their impressive axes.

"There, Othel, don't you be using any of those axes on my trees," she said. "Or on any of my guests."

The billier winked at her. "These are only ceremonial axes, my lady. Their only use is to attract custom."

The tables were filling up nicely with large bodies, small bodies. Children wrestling under tables, while their grandparents barked for their neighbor to speak up. Someone feathered a dulcimer. She could already hear the bells the dancers would put on after the meal. Wine barrels had been carted in along with hampers of food. Gildis and Hareth stood guard over these like the Argonath. Morwen noticed Teitherion hovering near Gildis's elbow with the painting nowhere in sight. Interesting, and Morwen thought she understood the sour twist on the housekeeper's lips.

The line of neighbors thinned, leaving Morwen on her own at the gate. She leaned against the iron post, one eye on the guests and the other on the road. Families who brought their own little morsels to share around brought them to a line of tables nearby. Morwen leaned against the gate, taking in all the people enjoying the sun under a shower of cherry petals_._ She could've stood there in perfect contentment till her legs withered beneath her, except for the feeling that she had forgotten someone.

Beneath the festival sounds and greetings of neighbors, Morwen heard a consistent, dull tattoo. She could not place the sound, but it began to build the way a distant storm's rumbling might as the winds blew it closer toward the valley. The bark of the old dog that stayed close to the barn these days could be heard echoing down the greenway.

Two riders and a procession of men tramping beneath the banner of Lossarnach appeared around a bend in the road. Everyone stopped to watch as men filed down the column of trees toward the orchard gate.

The foremost rider's coal-black curls hung below his shoulders. He sat tall in the saddle, immaculate, without a hint of creases or dirt from the road on his saffron tunic or green cloak. Even the flies didn't dare invade the picturesque figure the man and his horse created. Halmir. Morwen recognized the fabric for the same he had sent to her.

The second figure resembled a raven. Hundor. His straight black hair was pulled back in a queue, the color of his tunic black. The brothers' choice of colors, one yellow, one black, brought a wasp to Morwen's mind.

Morwen felt the dampness beneath her arms and down the back of her too-tight dress as half the household of Arnach came to a full stop before her gate. She could see no women and no children. Only axmen. Five score at least! The same number Hardang had sent to invade Ithilien.

* * *

Thanks to Thanwen and Anna for critters. :)


	9. Blossoms and Bad Company

Morwen felt like she had been turned to stone. She gaped at the great company assembled under her cousin's banner. It was a day's march from Arnach, perhaps longer with such a company. She dared not to think of what Gildis and Hareth would have to say about such a crowd. The food alone! Pain bloomed behind her eyes. Had planning the festival been so stressful for her parents?

Why hadn't Halmir sent forerunners to announce his party? Hardang had seldom brought more than a handful of his household to the feast. The discourtesy robbed her temporarily of breath.

She felt a presence at her back and turned her head slightly to see Gildis arriving as backup.

"Hail, Lady Morwen!"

Morwen and Gildis jumped as Halmir's voice boomed through the trees. Morwen tried not to cringe, half imagining the cherry blossoms showering down under the gale force of Halmir's greeting. With a flourish of his light riding cloak, he dismounted. One of the men on foot rushed forward to collect the reins. Hundor aped his older brother.

"Be welcome, kinsmen," she rejoined, after Gildis's knuckle dug into her back.

"Morwen, each year you are filled with more grace and beauty," said Halmir, perhaps reciting a line from one of his books.

Morwen blinked stupidly at her cousin, as if he had spoken to her in the gibberish of the Haradrim. She forced a tight-lipped smile onto her face after another dig from Gildis.

"Thank you," she said, dryly. "But you haven't said anything about the trees." She preferred compliments to her plantation rather than to her person. She couldn't help her looks and opinions varied, but the fruit trees spoke for themselves.

"Oh, the trees look the same every year." He chuckled indulgently. "What's there to say that hasn't been said already? Who could think of trees when you are in our presence?"

Stars! Was this over-courtesy in fashion in Minas Tirith? If so, Halmir had spent far too much time in that city and would benefit from permanent residence in Lossarnach where people spoke sensibly. Morwen exhaled slowly through her nose as a vent to her rising irritation before she turned her attention to Halmir's shadow.

"Greetings, Hundor," she said, evading a meaningless reply to Halmir's compliment.

Hundor glanced at her, nodded, then looked away, already bored. "Morwen," he mumbled in reply.

Halmir loosened the ties of his cloak and passed the garment on to another attendant, revealing the full splendor of his tunic. With the variety of tucks and embellishments, it would have taken quite some time to finish. The fabric she had returned would not have arrived in time, which suggested to Morwen's mind that Halmir meant for them to match. She felt queasy all of a sudden.

Morwen began to feel that all the eyes of Halmir's train were upon them. It distressed her. What would they do with them all?

"Never has this valley seen such a turnout from Arnach," she said. "I am a little surprised. The keep must have emptied itself out for such a simple gathering."

"A show of goodwill," said Halmir, good-humoredly, sailing right under Morwen's subtle reproach. "Our houses have too often existed side by side as indifferent neighbors."

"The better part of a day's journey is not quite side-by-side," she remarked.

Halmir gave her a condescending smile. "To one who rarely travels, it must seem like a distance. Compared to the great extent of Gondor, however, we are next door neighbors," he told her. "Let us begin a new age of kinship as if the valley walls between our lands were but little more than a garden hedge."

Morwen shared a glance with Gildis. She hadn't thought relations between the her home and Arnach were in need of repair.

"What does he mean by it?" Gildis whispered in Morwen's ear.

Morwen shrugged.

"As a pledge, we have brought gifts of wine to be shared out and goods from Arnach."

Halmir had thought of that, at least, she groused. Although too much wine and not enough meat made poor table companions. Morwen had a brief image of her guests dancing on the tables and brawling under the trees. _Oh stars_, she thought.

"How thoughtful," was what she said, however. "Let us find places for our new guests."

Beldir appeared before them with Gladhon and Gundor. Morwen directed Gundor to show the grooms were to lead away the horses. With the lords of Arnach temporarily distracted with their belongings, the overseer took the opportunity to speak with her.

"What does Lord Halmir mean by this?" Beldir grumbled so only their little circle could hear.

"I don't know. Something about good will between houses," she murmured, voice dry as bones. "They may tell us more once they've settled."

Beldir's frown deepened. "I don't like it."

"I'm sure none of us do," put in Gildis, "but we'll have to manage and quickly."

Beldir left with Gladhon to find a way to improvise more seating and Gildis to consult with Hareth over the food and tableware. Morwen remained at the gate with her uneasiness, which had grown since she first noticed her cousins riding down the greenway.

True, she was not on as cordial of terms with Halmir and Hundor as she had been with Hardang, and even that was a bit formal. After all, Hardang had been fifteen years older. Yet, it amazed her that their presence here could cast such a pall over the festival. Whatever Halmir's words of goodwill, his actions had created the opposite effect. She watched him closely as he addressed the men tasked with hauling the gifts over the long miles. To her dismay, she noticed they all carried large packs which surely contained more than wine and cheese.

…

Halmir and Hundor's gifts of wine, cheese, and expensive imported nuts were distributed among the food tables, while the crowd of men spread out among the guests.

Leaving the gate to view Beldir's progress, Morwen waded through the line of tables approaching the dais. She saw the high chairs there and remembered that she had another guest to think about. The commotion caused by her kinsmen had driven Prince Thengel and his men right out of reckoning. She turned back toward the gate and saw him only just entering with Cenhelm and Thurstan. The guardians helped support a hobbling Guthere, who looked pale but in good spirits. A conspicuous red scarf had been tied around his head. In conjunction with the scratches and bruises, he looked like a highwayman being carried to justice between two deputies.

"My lord Thengel," she called as she approached through the crush of axmen. "Gentlemen, be welcome."

Prince Thengel's eyes swept past her, over the crowd, then back again and lingered. She felt their weight and wondered at it. Perhaps he had looked for the threadbare apron dress she usually wore?

He stepped away from his men to speak with her, but Gladhon stepped between her and the prince, blocking her view.

"My lady, Beldir and I fitted up a few sawhorses with some spare planks we found in the wagon. The rest will have to sit on the ground."

"Thank you, Gladhon. You've been quite industrious."

Gladhon smiled. "Anything to help Lossemeren go as smoothly as possible for you."

Prince Thengel tapped Gladhon on the shoulder. "Guthere needs a blanket. Run and fetch it, will you?"

"Er…yes," Gladhon stammered. He bowed to Morwen. "Excuse me."

They watched Gladhon retreat through the orchard at a fast clip.

"I hope Guthere isn't suffering from cold?" she said.

Prince Thengel looked bemused. "What? Oh. No. Not terribly. It's just a precaution."

"Good. I'd hate for Guthere not to enjoy the feast after all he went through." She glanced around at the press of people and worried. "But perhaps it's a little overcrowded for a convalescent?"

"Maybe. I didn't think it would be a problem. But then you had deceived me, Lady Morwen," he said with a smile. "From your talk I assumed this would be a small community affair. Now I see half of Lossarnach assembled."

Morwen bit the inside of her cheek. "It is getting away from me somewhat," she admitted. Like a mudslide.

He looked down at her hands and belatedly she realized she was wringing them. She hid them behind her back, then blushed at her foolish behavior. But Prince Thengel glanced up at the trees, face politely blank.

"No fear," he said to the branches. Then he looked at her again and winked.

She returned his smile, feeling a rush of gratitude toward the prince. If he found the situation amusing, then perhaps it must be. He had come out the side of true disasters, and this wasn't one of them. Thank the stars Halmir and his men were only here the one night.

"The orchard looks exception today," Prince Thengel said, though he was looking at her and not the trees.

"They're the best part." Morwen couldn't help beaming proudly. "Though wait till the sun begins to go down and the lanterns are lit. Now, we'd better have you all seated. I've saved a table for your men over here near the dais. I'm afraid you'll feel a little left out, surrounded by people you don't know. Although, there is one acquaintance of yours."

Prince Thengel's head tipped to the side, curious. "Really? Who?"

"You remember the artist, Teitherion?"

Prince Thengel slewed around in alarm, as if the man were behind him. "Where?"

Morwen laughed. "Don't worry, he's tied to Gildis's apron strings over by the wine barrels."

He turned back to Morwen with an exasperated expression. "You know, I think you managed to frighten me. That's not an easy thing to do."

"I am sorry," she said without meaning it. "I thought you might want to renew the acquaintance."

"No, thank you."

"Well, then, come with me."

Beldir and Gladhon had been busy. A patchwork of blankets had been hastily spread out on the ground between precarious looking tables made of sawhorses and loose planks. Morwen motioned for the prince and his men to follow her toward a trestle table near the dais. Morwen helped pull out a high-backed chair, wrapped in garlands, placed at the table especially for Guthere. The others would share the benches on either side.

"We are so glad to see you up and about that some of the kitchen girls fitted up this seat for you," Morwen told Guthere with a warm smile. "You are one of my guests of honor, but I won't make you sit at the high table. It's a little disconcerting to have everyone staring at you," she confided.

Despite his rough appearance, the warrior blushed to his roots and seemed unable to reply as long as she smiled at him. She noticed Prince Thengel rolling his eyes.

The next table over was full of men from Arnach. Some of the Gondorians seemed to recognize Prince Thengel and his men. They called out greetings to one another and Cenhelm and Thurstan drifted over to talk, which relieved Morwen's mind somewhat. Some of the guests were enjoying the chaos, at least.

She touched Prince Thengel's arm to get his attention just as he tried to take a seat on the bench next to Guthere. He turned away from the table, giving her his full attention.

"Come, we have a place for you on the dais."

Morwen couldn't be certain, but she thought she saw him glance at Guthere, Thurstan, and Cenhelm's places with regret. She ignored the expression. It wouldn't do to leave a prince sitting at the table while lesser men sat in places of honor. What were scholars and…and whatever it was Hundor did with his time…compared to princes?

Hareth had arranged platters of food over the high table. Her cousins had ascended the dais and were puzzling over the chairs. Thengel followed a little ways behind her as she approached.

"But where is Prince Adrahil?" Halmir asked ask she drew near. "He usually arrives early, does he not?"

"Adrahil could not attend," Morwen answered. Thengel came around her side. "But I have another guest. Prince Thengel, here are Lord Hardang's brothers, Halmir and Hundor."

"Lord Ecthelion's lieutenant," said Hundor with a trace of wonder. "My brother served with you before he died."

"The same," said Thengel gravely. "I intended to travel to Arnach to honor Lord Hardang, but I was delayed."

Halmir gave Morwen a considering look, but he did not dare to ask how she had managed to receive a foreign prince as guest and for what purpose said prince should delay his journey in a backwoods place like Imloth Melui.

"Yes," Halmir replied. "I had heard something of this." He smiled, though it wasn't exactly nice. "The courier told my steward when a certain parcel was returned to me."

Morwen swallowed, tried to say something conciliatory, then gave up.

Halmir pretended to overlook it. He addressed the prince. "We hope to have the honor of receiving you soon at Arnach. It would be a balm in our brother's absence. Would it not, Hundor?"

"A balm, my lord," Hundor replied with an ironic bow of his head, clearly mocking his brothers choice of words.

Morwen saw the prince's eyes hood over and she felt distinctly that her headache had settled in for the long haul.

"That is also my hope. But are you not perhaps joining Ecthelion in Minas Tirith after the festival?" Prince Thengel said conversationally. "He means to return to Ithilien soon."

Halmir's color changed several times. "No, Lord. I have no intentions of returning to Minas Tirith. We simply came to visit our kinswoman."

"With half of Hardang's men at arms?" Prince Thengel asked, his voice threaded with disbelief.

Morwen shifted her wait from foot to foot, uncomfortable by the sudden tension Prince Thengel's conversation had created, and uncertain of how to direct the situation.

The red in Halmir's cheeks contrasted terribly with the yellow of his tunic. "The Lord of Lossarnach's men, yes."

Prince Thengel inclined his head. "My mistake."

"My lady!" Hareth approached with a ewer of wine for the head table. "We need your help with the wine. It'll take all day to share it out to this crowd." The cook didn't bother hiding the iron notes of disapproval in her voice.

"Excuse me." Morwen ducked away feeling relieved yet guilty for leaving the prince at her kinsmen's mercy. Or would it be the other way around?

As she ducked away after the cook, Morwen cursed Adrahil's feeble wife for depriving her of her accustomed shield, especially as she might have lent Adrahil's support to Prince Thengel. But now she had to turn her attention to serving her guests before the blessing and hope that even without Adrahil's diplomatic presence, the tension would dissipate between her guests of honor. But, the last thing she heard was the prince addressing Halmir.

"If not now, when do you intended to join Ecthelion's men in Ithilien with this healthy show of warriors?"

Morwen hazarded a glance over her shoulder to see Halmir's response to this indirect command.

Halmir looked as if he tasted sour wine.

…

Hirwen's _Lossemeren_ tradition had been to serve the poorest first, building her way up to the guests of honor. When questioned about this practice, she had merely said that it was the one day out of the year that the hardest working of her folk received consideration for their toil, while the privileged waited on them.

Morwen, with the help of Gildis and Hareth, poured wine for the guests, starting with the besotted goatherd and her giggling scullery maid, moving around until finally she served Halmir and Thengel, and their people. She filled glasses for Gildis and Hareth, then finally her own.

Stepping onto the dais, Morwen found the swath of faces turned toward her in expectation. Last year, her father had stood quite tall and visibly healthy in this exact spot to deliver the blessing. Morwen swallowed. For a terrible moment she forgot what she was going to say, couldn't even remember what her father used to say.

Morwen took a discrete breath and allowed her mind to relax. She felt it open and the words came back to her.

"Be welcome, my neighbors and new friends also."

They murmured back to her in kind.

"Today we thank the sun for renewed warmth and light that fills these orchards with good things. We ask a blessing over the land, for the hope of buds, and the promise of fruit to come."

Morwen raised her glass to drink the blessing of spring, though she couldn't help but feel that the breeze coming down from the mountain had a remnant of winter chill in it now. The company drank and then picnic hampers were opened and food shared out.

When she turned around to face the table, she found her three guests of honor watching her. The prince began to say something but Halmir cut him off.

"Well said, my dear," he said loud enough for the first few tables to overhear. "You have your father's gift of eloquence."

"Hardly that," she replied as she came around the table. Her father had been a trained orator in the habit of speaking for the Steward. What a ridiculous comparison.

Morwen sat down feeling the enjoyment of the feast sharply decreased. Her cousin's congeniality embarrassed her. And whatever the prince had meant to say, he seemed little inclined to repeat now.

Halmir aside, instead of enjoying the company, she worried about having enough to go around. Halmir's men had walked all day, would be starving, and would not, therefore, be leaving soon. She was hard-pressed to think of places to keep them, let alone feed them. Had Halmir thought of that?

Prince Thengel dropped a spoon, recalling her attention to the prince. He had grown strangely reserved since he had first stepped into the orchard. The genial smile disappeared behind a vague frown. She wondered what had passed between her guests in her absence.

Food would help, if she didn't allow herself to become too distracted to perform her duties as hostess. Morwen inventoried the variety of foods on the table before them. Meat pies, spring greens, jellies, cheeses. The real bounty wouldn't arrive until later in the year, but Hareth had done well.

"Pie?" Morwen offered.

"Please," Prince Thengel replied stiffly, holding out his plate while she served out a wedge minced pork in a pastry shell from the plate in front of her.

Morwen glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. His face revealed nothing.

"My lord, are you well?" she murmured. "Is there anything that you lack?"

His eyes met hers and she nearly recoiled. His expression might be inscrutable, but his eyes conveyed a barely concealed rage she had not expected. He turned away sharply. Oh dear. What had Halmir done or said in her absence?

"Something has offended you," she whispered. "I hope it wasn't me."

"No," he said, as if he were swallowing bitter herbs. A little afterward he managed a gentler tone. "You are beyond reproach."

She waited for him to elaborate.

"Your cousins and I do not see eye to eye on matters of duty, that is all," he said.

Morwen tried to reply, but then she felt something warm on her left wrist - Halmir's finger. Removing her hand from the armrest to her lap, she turned sharp eyes on him.

"This is a special occasion, lady," Halmir murmured in her ear. He had to lean a good deal over the his armrest to do it.

"So you said when you arrived," she replied, leaning away from him. "And while _Lossemeren _is certainly my favorite time of year, I am still puzzled by this…" she waved at the company. "Grand gesture."

"Forget _Lossemeren_ for a moment." He looked into her eyes. "Can you not guess what greater occasion there might be?"

"No," she said without trying. Morwen looked at her wine glass and had the distinct impression she wanted what was inside of it. She reached for the ewer to refill it.

"So I have doubly surprised you."

"You have," Morwen replied. A self-satisfied smile spread over his face and Morwen couldn't help adding, "Doubly surprised that Ferneth found you so indispensable during this dark time."

If the barb hit home, Halmir didn't show it, though his face did sag in belated gloom.

"We regretted the loss of two to your feast this year. First, Hardang, then my sister-in-law. For Arnach to miss it completely would be negligent," Halmir said as he held out his glass for her to refill since she already had the ewer in hand. She felt an old, childlike urge not to share. Her cousins did have a way of provoking her to behave like her lesser self.

"Doubly grievous," Hundor added blandly.

"I would have understood. Hardang was your brother, after all," she told them. Halmir looked as grieved as a fox in a warren. Hundor looked like he wanted more wine if only she would finish with the ewer.

"Naturally you would, Morwen. You always were sympathetic." Halmir swirled the wine in his glass in wistful contemplation. "You see, my sister-in-law has gone into almost complete isolation since the birth of her son, even so far as to cut us off. Ferneth communicates with one or two of her servants who manage the household. Her mourning is deep."

_All the more reason for you to stay at home_, Morwen thought. Ferneth had given birth to her first son a little over a week after the news of her husband's death. That had been over a month ago, but a stranger wouldn't have known it by looking at her cousins and their company.

"Is she the only one who grieves?" Morwen heard Thengel say. His profile revealed little as he stared out over the guests, but something in his tone made the fine hairs rise on her arms. "I did not think the Lord of Lossarnach would be so soon forgotten by his followers."

Morwen appreciated then her strategic, if somewhat precarious, position between the prince and her cousins. Precarious in that she had mistaken Thengel's love of books and courtesy for the sort of intelligent softness she had expected in her father. This voice belonged to Ecthelion's right-hand lieutenant, she thought. Let that teach her to make such a mistake about this soldier again.

"Not forgotten, I'm sure," she soothed, though it little pleased her to have to play the diplomat between her guests. Adrahil would have performed that task better. "You mistake my cousins. They would not wish to dampen my celebration. _Lossemeren_ comes but once a year."

Morwen didn't dare look at Prince Thengel to see if his fury had abated at all. Her words had been a hint and a reminder to both sides. _Don't spoil the day. _

Halmir leaned deeply into the table to see around Morwen's shoulders, and thus, the man who had spoken to him in a manner he was not accustomed to - except by Hardang. He cleared his throat.

"We have not forgotten my honored brother, Prince Thengel. Nor do we come simply to make merry. We have come for a purpose. That is, I have."

Something in his tone caught her attention and would not let go. She stared at Halmir.

"What purpose?"

Halmir eased back into his seat, pleased to have her attention. "Well, amongst other things, to survey the management of the plantation. To view your progress and to praise it."

"Or to suggest improvement," Hundor added. "Halmir has a few ideas about that."

"Hush, Hundor," Halmir admonished. Hundor shrugged.

Morwen arched a freshly plucked eyebrow. "I think you'll find that the transition in the management of Bar-en-Ferin has gone remarkably smooth," she told them with a hint of acid in her tone.

"You've had a good start," Halmir conceded. "But you've completely overlooked the valley's potential. Granted, it has only been a year." He took a sip of wine before continuing. "Hardang had a hands-off approach as a landlord, which had its points. Yet, it would be remiss of the Lord of Lossarnach if he failed to guide a young woman - a tenant and a kinswoman no less - now that her father and mother have passed."

Morwen pushed her plate away and turned completely in her chair to face Halmir. "So, you and your men have come to help me improve the plantation?" The tone in her voice had turned icy. "You've become an expert on orchards since you've returned from Minas Tirith? A city noted for its _dead_ tree."

Halmir looked at her in a way she was not accustomed to be looked at. She thought his eyes missed little, and yet, he saw what he wanted to see despite evidence to the contrary. In this case, she supposed he saw a helpless girl like Ioneth, begging for guidance. It made her regret the stupid dress Gildis has roped her into.

"Morwen, I've been considering how Imloth Melui might fit into a scheme of mine that goes beyond the scope of this little garden of yours."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously at the slight to her orchard. Little garden! "What scheme?" she asked.

"As you know, I have a great many friends in Minas Tirith."

"Do I know that?" she asked innocently. "How nice of you to have friends."

Halmir glowered. "Morwen, listen. As you also know, summers in Minas Tirith are hot —"

"Well, what did you expect with all that stone," she retorted, having no great opinion of Minas Tirith. "Of course—"

Halmir grasped her wrist. "Please don't interrupt. As I was saying, summers are hot and don't mention the fumes from the east."

"I won't," she grumbled, freeing her arm.

"It's all very well for the wealthy," Halmir said without hearing her. "They can sail off to Belfalas for a month or two. But what about the merchant class, for instance?"

"What about them?"

"Where can they afford to go, I ask you?"

Morwen shrugged. "That's none of my business."

"But it could be," Halmir said brightly.

"I don't comprehend you."

Halmir gave his brother a significant look, which made Morwen bristle all over.

"Look, Minas Tirith is barely a day's ride from Imloth Melui. People already travel this way to refresh themselves. With a little boost to the infrastructure, this valley could be a popular summering place for those who can't afford the luxuries of Dol Amroth."

Morwen didn't know what she found more distasteful. The traffic of strangers up and down the greenway or altering her dear valley in any way.

"What changes do you mean?" she asked suspiciously.

"Put in a proper road, for one," Hundor chimed in.

Morwen stared. "Absolutely not. You won't lay a single brick on the greenway."

"We'll leave the road alone, Hundor. It has a certain quaintness that might endear travelers," Halmir conceded. "But consider the other possibilities."

Hundor raised his glass. "And the profit."

"Profit or no, I'm sorry to say that you've wasted a journey if that was your intent," Morwen told them, returning to her former position in her seat. "Beldir has provided excellent guidance and we are quite happy with business as is. We do not need Minas Tirith's population tramping over Bar-en-Ferin."

"Don't turn your nose up at a little extra profit, Morwen. There's nothing wrong with striking out into new markets. Some would call it wise."

"I don't know about this so-called wisdom of yours, Halmir, but I know my home. This isn't a hobby farm. It takes all our resources just to keep Bar-en-Ferin running. What you envision simply isn't possible, even if it were desired."

Halmir leaned forward again, addressing Prince Thengel. "Alas, stubbornness runs in the family, you know. We all want to do just as we please."

The Prince stared stonily ahead as if he had not heard a word of the conversation between cousins. He remained silent.

Halmir's voice dropped to a whisper. "I can't say I'm wholly satisfied with what I see here," he said for Morwen's benefit only. "And I'm distressed to find that you so headstrong. To dismiss counsel is a vice of youth."

"To give advice unasked is another sign," Morwen retorted. "Sorry to disappoint your purpose for coming."

Halmir smiled then. "Oh, that is not my only reason."

"What more could you have?" Morwen rolled her eyes, realizing she had just provided Halmir the means to extend the uncomfortable conversation.

"Surely you must know after the gift I sent you."

"On the contrary, I could not puzzle out what you meant by it," she snapped. "Which is why I sent it back.

A shadow passed over Halmir's face. "So you did. And that is how I came to find out that you were harboring the exiled prince without our knowledge."

He sounded displeased, but why should he be?

"I may receive my own guests," she told him frankly, "without deferring to you."

"For now, Morwen," Halmir replied. "But times change and you of all people know how suddenly."

Morwen stared ahead, temporarily robbed of speech. Certainly he meant the abrupt death of her father, if not Hardang. She felt like Halmir had dug his thumb into a bruise that refused to heal. Next year Arnach would not receive an invitation, she felt certain. Not if her cousins continued to treat her with such disrespect.

Prince Thengel cleared his throat. "I was wondering, Lady Morwen, how you manage to keep the birds from eating all the cherries once they come in."

The abrupt change in conversation temporarily derailed Morwen.

"The birds?" she asked.

"I don't know much about it," he said, "But I came across some essays on husbandry in your father's study. Do you not consider them pests?"

She exhaled softly, relieved for a distraction and pleased that the prince had exerted some control over his temper, as well. Even if it meant discussing the minutia of fruit trees.

"Years ago my mother had mulberry bushes planted near the orchard. They ripen with the cherries and the birds seem to prefer their fruit. Beldir has experimented with bird feeders, as well. We fill the feeders with seed to distract the birds from the fruit."

"How do you get any mulberries then?" he said thoughtfully. "On the Pelennor, I understand some farmers use netting to protect the trees. Have you not observed that on your travels between Arnach and Minas Tirith, Lord Halmir?"

Halmir shrugged. "Maybe."

"Do they?" Morwen frowned contemptuously. "But the bird only want food and we benefit from them, in turn. They help keep the insects down, so we supply another source of food and hope it will lessen the amount they take from our crops. I can't abide seeing them trapped in the netting. It's cruel. We never use that method here."

Prince Thengel nodded. "So, you would says it's a live and let live philosophy you practice in your own fields in Lossarnach?"

"Certainly at Ber-en-Ferin."

"Is netting used anywhere in Lossarnach?" Prince Thengel asked Halmir.

"How should I know?" Halmir replied sullenly. "I don't canvas every orchard in the fief. Farmers are free to do as they please."

Only belatedly did Morwen consider that Prince Thengel might have been making a point. She poured him the rest of the wine.

...

AN: Many thanks to Thanwen and Anna for advice and critters.


	10. Halmir

Thengel sliced through another sliver of roasted fowl. His plate was covered in a layer of mince. Very fine, nearly a paste. He found the repetitive motion of cutting the meat soothing. A technique his uncle Oswin had first taught him as a boy whenever Fengel King plagued him. Not that it had worked in his full-blooded youth, but age had curbed his impulses somewhat. At least, it tempered his annoyance thanks to the jaw-rattling of Lady Morwen's cousins.

Béma, grant him patience and other work for his knife. The dishes lining the table were bare.

"The victuals are about gone everywhere," Thengel overheard Hareth whisper in Morwen's ear. "There's still some wine about, though."

"Tell Beldir and the boys to start packing away the tables, then," Morwen murmured back.

Hareth nodded and climbed down the back of the dais the same way she'd come up. Guests had already began to mill around, roving from table to table to greet a neighbor or suggest a walk through the marked pathways beneath the white and pink canopy. Thengel watched with half-interest until one of the men in the livery of Lossarnach approached the dais. He walked with a pronounced limp, little aided over the springy, uneven turf by a walking stick.

A genuine smile broke over Thengel's face as he clasped the man by the wrist.

"Well met, my friend."

"Greetings, Lord Thengel." The soldier bowed in Morwen's direction. "Greetings, my lady."

"Lady Morwen, this is Beleg. One of Hardang's best."

"Not so or else things might have gone otherwise," Beleg said gravely. "The filth got me in one of their dirty iron jaws and that was that." He motioned with his hands, resembling a bear trap snapping shut.

"I'm sorry to see you were injured," she said smoothly, though her cheeks looked paler. "I did not realize those creatures used such devices."

Beleg took a deep breath, as if to begin an explanation, but Thengel cleared his throat. "Not often, my lady," was all Thengel would say. A cherry festival wasn't the place for a lecture on goblin warcraft.

Beleg said graciously, "You have my thanks for this splendid feast. I have long wished to see Imloth Melui with my own eyes."

Morwen inclined her head graciously. "You are welcome, Beleg. I hope it is worth the long journey."

"Oh, certainly." Turning back to Thengel, he said, "Some of the lads were hoping you'd join them for a glass of wine. My lady won't mind if we steal away an old comrade?"

"Of course not."

Morwen's smile didn't quite meet her eyes. Thengel hesitated. He wanted to leave the dais and the tension behind him, but that meant leaving his hostess alone to be bullied by her cousins. Béma, he hated bullies.

Then his first memory of Morwen was of a young, imperious woman treading toward him across the length of her hall. In a moment's clarity, he realized she could probably defend herself quite well and maybe his presence hindered it. She would be polite to her relations in his presence, after all. Alone, she could let the claws come out. So he thanked Morwen and followed Beleg to the place where a host of familiar campaigners had joined his guard.

…

"Was that all the food?" Hundor asked, looking askance at the empty platters.

Morwen squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled. "There are five score more mouths this year, Hundor. Uninvited, I might add. I can't help it if all the foods ran out within the first hour."

Hundor pushed his empty plate away and grabbed a ewer. "I'm going to look for more wine."

Left alone with Halmir, Morwen didn't bother to keep the conversation going. She found her eyes trailing over the faces, strange and familiar, until they found Prince Thengel in the crowd. Maybe twenty dark-haired men of Lossarnach piled around him, some standing, some overflowing the benches. A bright spot in the group revealed the garlanded chair where Guthere had fallen asleep.

The conversation seemed to flow between Prince Thengel and Beleg. The faces of the men were serious, intent on whatever the prince had to say. She wondered what that might be? Remembering past skirmishes maybe? Did soldiers like to talk about battles or was that too grim? She had no idea and felt half-tempted to join them just to find out.

"Do they use bear traps?" she asked Halmir suddenly, thinking of Beleg's injury. "The orcs, I mean."

"How should I know?" Halmir said.

She turned surprised gray eyes on him. "Well, you've studied, haven't you?" It wasn't as though his father had attended to Hardang's training alone.

Halmir sneered. "It hasn't come up in my lectures. Besides, why would someone like you need to know what orcs do? I don't expect Lord Ecthelion will be recruiting women any time soon."

"I'm only curious. But since we're on the subject of your studies," Morwen said with deep intonation. "I'm surprised by your sudden interest in Bar-en-Ferin. After all, I expect you'll be returning to Minas Tirith soon."

"No, I intend to remain in Lossarnach indefinitely." He sat up straighter. "I'm the head of the family now."

"That's a gloomy thought," Morwen murmured under her breath.

She swallowed the last mouthful of wine in her cup, then listlessly returned the empty cup to the table. A breeze blew soft petals onto the cloth. One petal, a soft white tear, landed in the cup. Morwen smiled as it soaked up a drop of the dark wine, feeling oddly cheered by the veins of new color spreading along the petal. She would get up soon and mingle with her neighbors the way her father had done. Maybe she would dance?

Morwen scooted her chair backward to get out from the table, but Halmir's voice stopped her.

"By the by, what do you make of this guest of yours?"

"What do you mean?"

Halmir lazily tapped his knife on the table. "Do you find him agreeable?"

"I notice you don't," she evaded.

Halmir sniffed. "He thinks that because he's a prince he can lord it over others. But what can you expect from a man with a reputation for rebellion and spleen."

"What do you mean?"

"Haven't you heard about him?" Halmir smiled beneath an arched brow. "What he did?"

Morwen uncomfortably recalled the walk to Anarion's well. "He told me something of his history."

"Did he?" Halmir asked archly. "And what did he have to say?"

"You can hardly expect me to divulge a private conversation."

"I'm not asking you to gossip, Morwen. But how else will you know if he told the truth?"

Morwen's face burned. "I have no reason to suspect that he lied."

Halmir laughed unpleasantly. "Morwen, you can't take strangers at their word, especially given what his motives might be."

"What motives?"

Halmir stabbed the air with the knife. "For staying here, of course."

"He needed help for his wounded guard," she told him. "He never had any intention of staying at Bar-en-Ferin. I doubt he ever knew about it before they arrived."

"So he says."

"I saw the wound myself. Guthere was gravely injured."

"Perhaps." Then he gave her a calculating look. "Do you honestly believe he didn't know a thing about Imloth Melui when he arrived? I'm sure Hardang mentioned his young, unprotected cousin at some point."

"Unprotected?" Morwen scoffed.

"Would you like me to say orphan?" Halmir retorted. Morwen gaped at him, stung. "At least, it doesn't hurt to be wary of those who tell their own tales. In fact, I'm not comfortable with you being alone here with him. Adrahil would agree to the unsuitability of this arrangement."

Morwen opened her mouth to protest, but Halmir silenced her with a wave of his hand.

"I care about you, Morwen. Of course I'm concerned," he said, as if divining her thoughts.

"In the twenty years of my life, you have never expressed concern before now, so forgive me for being surprised."

After an uncomfortable pause, he turned fully in her direction, staring her down with eyes she was surprised to find looked vaguely tearful. "How can you say that?"

Why was he going to cry? Why? She was the orphan, after all. Morwen wanted to throw a spoon at him for calling her that. The word felt impersonal and pathetic. It wasn't the sort of word one threw at someone casually.

"Halmir, where was this concern last year when my father died?" she challenged. "Adrahil rode down immediately to be with me while you stayed behind in Minas Tirith. "

"Someone had to wait with the body," he retorted.

"Yes, and from what I heard, it was Adrahil's steward."

Halmir looked temporarily trumped. He drank his wine. "Everyone knows Hardang and Adrahil were your favorites. I can't help it if you haven't noticed me," he said sadly. "I had hoped one day you would count me a friend the way you did Adrahil…but I suppose it's foolish…"

Morwen blinked, then pressed a hand to her throat. "You think _I _excluded _you_?"

"I may not have Adrahil's easy way," he said with a toss of his curls, "but I've only ever wanted to be friends with you."

Morwen scraped all her childhood memories together trying to find any shred of evidence that corroborated with this stunning revelation. She couldn't think of a single instance.

"I've tried lately to show you that, but you've rebuffed my efforts." He jerked one of his cuffs straighter around his wrist, directing Morwen's attention toward the blinding yellow roses.

The cloth. Stars. Maybe she should have appeased him and turned it into a table runner or something rather than send it back.

Morwen sighed. "I am sorry if I've hurt your feelings, Halmir, but I never realized you wanted to be friends."

"Never realized? I am honestly shocked," he went on, "I suppose it's too much to hope now that you might overcome your prejudices."

Prejudices? Morwen pinched the bridge of her nose as the conversation spiraled downward. Halmir's actions and words confounded and confused her. How had he managed to turn the tables on her?

"There's a simple way to start if we're to be friends," she said. "First, I don't need you to worry about me, the orchard, or about my guests. I don't need help and Prince Thengel has proven himself to be honorable and courteous." Then to drive the point home, she added. "Two of his men are helping in the orchard, in fact."

Halmir jumped in his seat. "What? How long?"

"Only a few days. Prince Thengel himself offered to lend a hand, which of course I couldn't allow. But they were a wonderful help after the storm." Morwen warmed just thinking about it. "I only wish they would stay on indefinitely."

Morwen failed to notice a look of mortification spread over Halmir's face. Surely that was the look of a man who finally realized the difference between the sort of help she needed and wanted versus the silly notions he had offered.

"You would like that, would you? Has the prince expressed a similar wish?"

"Not really. Though he hasn't set a date for his departure and his men seem content to let Guthere heal as much as possible before leaving."

Halmir's eyes narrowed, losing that moist aspect that had appalled Morwen. "I see," he said.

"I certainly hope so," she said optimistically as she rose. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to light the lanterns before it's too dark to find them in the branches." She swallowed, hoping for a conciliatory tack, "But I will think about what you've said and perhaps try to make an effort to…to get along with you better."

Halmir was too lost in thought to hear her. A worried crease marred the skin between his brows and he absentmindedly twiddled one of his waxed curls between his fingers.

…

When Thengel and Beleg arrived at the trestle table, he could scarcely move for the sea of hands reaching out to grasp his own. His guard formed a semi-circle at the end of the table. Cenhelm and Thurstan flanking a snoring Guthere. He nodded at Cenhelm who had given him a worried look when he caught his eye.

Thengel waved his hand in a semi-circle, indicating the swath of ground below the cherry trees. "I don't recognize most of these men who have come with you."

"You wouldn't," Beleg told him as he handed Thengel a cup of wine from their supply. "Most have never left the fief."

"Or the farm," another soldier standing behind Guthere piped in darkly. Adan, Thengel recalled. His head looked misshapen where an ear had been hacked or bitten off. "But Lord Halmir trussed them up in uniform anyway. As if these boys were trained and all."

"Not trained?" Thurstan parroted, aghast. "What's their use, then?"

Guthere snorted, waking himself up. He blinked blearily at the crowd.

"No, these are a bunch of toy soldiers," Beleg muttered, "To be lined up on display, then forgotten. We've had no word about returning to the border."

Thengel glanced at the table. He noticed Lord Hundor leaving it. Halmir and Morwen were engaged in spotty conversation, but he didn't see any sign that she was in distress.

"Why would Halmir dress up farm lads in soldiers' garb?" Thengel asked. After all, as Beleg had suggested, and Thengel knew, the lordling had made his intentions to avoid Ithilien clear.

"Well, that's more than we know."

"You've never been to this feast?" Thengel asked Beleg. When the guard nodded, he continued, "But do you know if this was customary to bring a company of armed men?"

Beleg's forehead wrinkled. "No, usually only Lord Hardang and his brothers were invited, and then Lady Ferneth once they were married. A few guards went along, of course."

"So, this is unusual for you?"

"What isn't nowadays?" said Adan. "It tell you, life at the garth has taken a strange turn since Lord Hardang fell."

"What do you mean?" Cenhelm asked.

"Well, it's like this. Lord Hardang died, but he's got this new baby boy whom he never laid eyes on. Rightfully, little Forlong's the new lord," said Beleg. "Is he not?"

"But he's an infant," another soldier chimed in.

"Right. So Lord Halmir comes back from Minas Tirith," Beleg's voice dropped to a low rumble, "and he starts strutting around the garth like he's one of the sea kings. Well, we've been waiting for Lady Ferneth to come around and set him down a peg, only she hasn't."

Thengel asked, "Would you say that's odd behavior for your mistress?"

"Yes," said Adan. "That's exactly what we can't understand. She's a bear normally. In a fight, I'd say Lord Hardang would've chosen her for a second over any man."

"A bear, hmm?" Thengel tried to recall if Hardang ever used that descriptor for his wife.

"Sure. Within the first fortnight of her marriage, she had the garth cowed, Halmir and Hundor included." Adan leaned into the table and murmured so quietly everyone had to lean in to hear. "Some say she's the reason Halmir took a scholarly bent and rode off to Minas Tirith.

"We haven't seen her since Forlong's name day. Only a few of the people she brought from her father's household and the steward hear a word from her."

Cenhelm's eyebrows rose up to his hairline. "Not even Lord Halmir or his brother?"

Adan shrugged. "Not that we know of."

Thengel crossed his arms. "So Halmir has set himself up as regent. That's a lot of…responsibility."

"A baby can't lord it over a fief, can he?" said Beleg. "He won't be riding into Ithilien any time soon, neither. I guess Lord Halmir's next in line then until little Forlong comes of age."

"What about his mother?" Thengel suggested.

"Well, if she'd come out of hiding," Beleg said bitterly, "then I guess she'd deal for her son just as well."

"A woman can't run a fief." One soldier harrumphed.

Thengel held up his hand, not about to tell the men of Arnach their own business. While they exchanged outlooks on the matter, he delved into his own thoughts. The conversation shifted to news about comrades who had sustained worse injuries and hadn't been picked to walk the long road to Imloth Melui. They ribbed Guthere for getting in the way of a tree when he'd made it out of Ithilien unscathed. The warrior chuckled and grimaced in turn, saying,

"Laugh all you want, boys, but the kitchen girls bring me all the food I can stomach and Lady Morwen herself shows up with flowers for my bedside. They tell me she even held my hand while the old crone knocked a hole in my skull. Didn't she, my lord?"

Thengel nodded. "She did." Well, for some of it. He almost smiled at how stubborn she'd been about staying for the surgery, yet so sickened by it.

"She crooned your name like the wee baby you are." Thurstan dug an elbow into Guthere's side. "Now whenever she comes by he turns red as a tomato."

Cenhelm cleared his throat. "Keep it respectful. For all you know she's standing behind you."

Guthere and Thurstan shared stricken glances before looking over their shoulders.

Thengel's eyes wandered back to the dais where he had last seen Morwen. Hundor had returned to the table. Halmir who was helping himself to more wine from a new ewer. Where had Morwen gone? Not that it mattered. It was her orchard, but he remembered how the crowd had made her uneasy.

"Any plans to return to Ithilien yourself, my lord?" Beleg asked, drawing Thengel's attention back to the table.

"If I had my way, I'd be there…" he meant to say _now_, but something checked him. He settled for, "Soon."

"We feel the same," said Beleg. "Better than sitting around while the moss grows over us, but our fearless leader doesn't feel the same."

Thengel clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll put in a word for you boys with Ecthelion when I see him next."

"May I ask when that might be?" said Adan, hopeful.

The chatter around the table stopped. Thengel's men sat stiff and silent.

Thengel cleared his throat. "Well, not for a little while longer. "

Beleg and Adan exchanged mutual looks of confusion. "Is Minas Tirith that bad in the spring?"

"Only for the prince," Cenhelm muttered.

Thengel rolled his eyes.

Then he noticed that the younger brother had deserted the dais again.

…

It was early yet to be lighting the lamps, but Morwen saw an opportunity to be alone and she snatched it. She had observed before that if one walked with purpose and an arm full of something, people tended not to interrupt. Guests melted out of her way without a word. Some nodded. Most scarcely seemed to notice the lady of the house, but then, there never had been much of a distinction between the lady and the serving women of Bar-en-Ferin.

Armed with a box of long matches, she'd skirted the perimeter of the marked grounds. Halfway through the round, she'd come across a lantern swinging in a breeze. The wick had fallen into the well at the bottom. Morwen had to get a ladder forgotten against the stone wall in order to bring the lantern down to where she could fish out the wick.

When she climbed halfway up the ladder to replace the lantern on its limb, her eyes fell upon a dreaded sight. A seeping layer of green and yellow gum staining the bark. The canker oozed where the branch had been removed. They'd been so preoccupied with the damage at the top of the slope, she hadn't spent enough time in the cherries. Botheration. Where was Beldir? She could see that the cut had not been clean enough, exposing the limb to disease. If the tools hadn't been cleaned between trimmings, the other trees might also have cankers. Beldir would know.

Morwen descended the ladder, barely mindful of the long skirt she wore. Halfway down, she lost her footing on a rung. Heart in her throat, she slid the rest of the way, landing in someone's arms before both landed on the grass

The arm pinned under her waist wore a black cuff.

"Hundor," she sputtered. A confused moment passed as they tried to untangle limbs. "What were you doing sneaking up behind me?"

"Lucky for you, I did. Ow— mind your elbows."

When she turned to face him, she noted the high color on his cheeks. But then, hers felt rather hot as well. She pushed herself off the ground, though the unyielding fabric of her bodice made it difficult. Hundor busied himself swiping off grass and cherry blossoms from his stark garb.

"Look, I came to say you'd better follow—"

"Have you seen Beldir?" Morwen interrupted.

Hundor blinked. "No, but…"

"I need to find him. Look, do you think these leaves look a little too yellow?" She made him look upward.

"I don't know…"

"Not there. Just on this branch?"

"Morwen, would you listen? It's important."

He sounded nearly sincere, but then, the last time Morwen believed him she'd nearly landed in Anorian's bottomless well.

"So is this if I don't take care of it."

"It's about the orchard, you know."

Morwen held up her hands. "Hundor, if we are to maintain the peace, speak no more to me of improvements or guests."

A contemptuous, sly twisted over Hundor's face. Whatever original motive had led him to seek her, vanished. She hadn't given him the attention he wanted, then snapped at him, so now he was going to make it difficult in order to sooth his own nerves. Hundor was always predictable. Morwen sighed.

"I promise that isn't my immediate purpose," he said casualy as he picked off an invisible cherry blossom. "Just thought I'd mention Halmir's had too much to drink."

She gave him a sharp look. "So?"

"Well, he's a blabber when he's drunk, you know."

Morwen didn't follow Hundor's line of reasoning. She gripped the side of the ladder, ready to mount again to inspect her sick tree. "I'm not responsible for Halmir's behavior," was all she said.

"No, but it is your dais and they are your guests." Hundor shrugged. The corner of his lip lifted with hidden knowledge. "Halmir could say anything."

Morwen let go of her held on the ladder. "What is he saying?"

Hundor shrugged again. Morwen bit back an aggravated retort, all too familiar with her cousin. Hundor must have his games and if that meant feigning ignorance to draw it out, so be it.

"Oh very well," she groused. "Lead the way."

…

Halmir perched on the lip of the dais, refilling his cup with the rich red wine sent by Adrahil. His cheeks were apple red, and the aura gleaming around his eyes as they swept the crowd made Morwen cringe.

He cleared his throat. A few people turned to look, saw only a man deep in his cups and so gave their attention back to their neighbors.

Morwen approached the dais slowly, Hundor trailing behind in her shadow.

"Halmir."

He looked down at her. "Oh, Hundor found you. Hiding in the trees, I told him. Look, I have poured you a drink." He pointed vaguely toward her cup.

"I've had enough wine for today," Morwen answered, "and so have you, I think."

With his free hand, Halmir swatted at stray curls that had fallen over his shoulder. "No." He looked down at his glass. "Well, it's beside the point, anyway."

She mounted the first step. "Why don't you come on a walk with Hundor and me?" She felt like a parent trying to talk a small child down from a tree after it had climbed too high. "I'll just help you down, shall I?"

"Help me?" Halmir laughed. He sounded surprisingly sober. "Morwen, I came to help you."

"What do you mean?" she asked dryly, feeling like the day had begun to repeat itself.

"I'm going to take care of you. Someone's got to." Halmir sidled down the length of the dais toward the center, away from Morwen.

Hundor tapped her on the shoulder. He whispered, "There he goes."

"Halmir!" she called. The nearest guests stared at her. "It's nothing…nothing to see…" she told them. When Halmir still didn't acknowledge her, she followed after him.

Then, calling on the attention of the revelers, he said, "Yes, I have come for a purpose," as if to bolster himself. He poured himself another very generous helping of wine.

"I love this part," Hundor crooned. "It's always entertaining after his…how many cups was it?" He began ticking off the amount of wine on his fingers.

Alarmed, Morwen snatched the glass out of Halmir's hand. The stem felt slick with sweat and the wine sloshed out over Morwen's hand, trickling like red vines down her wrist.

"Pardon, neighbors," Halmir called, "your attention please!"

"Halmir, don't you dare!" Morwen hissed.

…

"What's that grand mop of hair up to?" Cenhelm asked. He tapped on Thengel's shoulder and pointed toward the dais.

"Who?" Thengel glanced up just as Lady Morwen, looking quite white, snatched a cup out of her cousin's hand.

"Listen, everyone," Halmir shouted. "Listen!"

_Oh, Béma_, Thengel cringed.

The voices petered out the way the hissing and snapping of oil in a frying pan fizzled out when removed from heat. The dancers were the last to fall quiet. Everyone turned toward the dais, blank or bemused expressions on their faces. They were used to one speech at the feast. Two seemed gratuitous.

Halmir's over-bright gaze swept the upturned faces of his audience with satisfaction. "Today is more than a feast day. It is a celebration of the renewal of spring, but also of unity and goodwill. And I flatter myself…"

Halmir seemed only then to notice that the wine glass had disappeared from his hand. The lordling stared at his empty fingers stupidly.

"Looks stewed," Thurstan observed.

Yes, Halmir did look like he'd partaken of a little too much wine. Even from a distance, Halmir's eyes had an over-bright eagerness, collared below by reddened cheeks. Thengel rose slowly from the bench, considering whether or not to tackle him or wait to see if someone closer with any sense would do it first. But then Halmir found his train of thought again.

"Er…I flatter myself that this noble household and that of Arnach will be be united all the more, for today I declare my intention to make your lady my fief…er, wife."

* * *

Oh boy! Thanks to Thanwen, Gythja, Lia, and Anna for critters.


	11. A Conspiracy of Cousins

Chapter 11: A Conspiracy of Cousins

Morwen burned, but it was the cold burn of frost on flesh. When the spasmodic applause and chatter petered out Halmir coughed. His bleary eyes slid sideways toward the onlookers than back to Morwen.

Morwen grasped the wine cup so tightly that the inlayed glass diamonds around the stem left a red pattern along her fingers.

Halmir coughed again. "Well, what do you say, Morwen?"

Some of the crowd strained their ears, not wanting to miss a spectacle when it presented itself. Morwen scraped her brain for a crumb of an idea to respond to Halmir's farcical announcement. But no words came to navigate the tricky position in which he had placed her. To answer the way she wanted would be impolitic. To answer the way he wished, impossible.

At a moment's inspiration, she let the cup slip from her fingers. It hit the dais. The wine gushed upward, then left a dark splash of red on the front panel of her dress.

The effect was instantaneous.

Gildis rushed forward with a cloth to try to save the dress, kneeling on the dais between Morwen and Halmir. A handful of Morwen's neighbor women followed, crowding Halmir out. They created a wall of dresses for Morwen to hide behind, besides further confusing her drunken cousin.

Laughter bubbled up in the crowd, which stung Morwen's pride. Yet temporary ridicule felt better than a forced answer in front of ten score guests.

"Gildis, I need to get out of here," she whispered to the housekeeper who had squeezed the excess wine from her skirt into the rag.

The women clucked their tongues or moaned when Gildis pulled away the the rag to reveal the stains. Morwen moaned too, but not over the dress.

Gildis shook her head. "Come, my lady," she said loudly enough for the nearest guests to hear. "I'll help you into a different dress."

Unable to help it, Morwen glanced around for Halmir, but he had disappeared from the dais. She couldn't see him anywhere. But rather than feel relieved, her anxiety spiked. If a deranged animal wandered into one's yard, best to keep it in sight.

When they passed through the gate, out of earshot, Morwen stopped Gildis.

"What happened?"

Gildis looked at Morwen like she was addled.

"Lord Halmir intends to marry you. He isn't one for asking, apparently."

Morwen blinked to hear it put so starkly. She cupped her forehead in her hand. "I thought so, but I'm feeling a little dazed."

"And no wonder," Gildis grumbled. "At least you thought of a clever diversion, though it's cost you that front panel. Come."

Morwen followed her down the path and almost broke into a run when she heard footsteps pursuing them. Unable to help herself, she turned to find that only Ioneth following at a shuffling run.

"My lady," the plump girl puffed as she came alongside Morwen, "Beldir sent me after you to make sure you're well. You looked fit to pass out when you dropped the wine."

So it hadn't looked deliberate to anyone but Gildis, Morwen hoped.

"I'll be alright," Morwen assured her. "Where did Halmir go? Did you see?"

"Did you miss Lord Thengel come up behind him?"

Morwen winced. "What did he do?"

"He hooked Lord Halmir's elbow and dragged him behind the dais."

"Did he?" she asked weakly. Morwen had only been aware of the guests as a whole, forgotten the individuals in the few seconds it had taken for Halmir to derail the feast. "And then what?"

Ioneth shrugged. "Well, everyone laughed because Lord Halmir sort of hiccuped really loudly when the prince pulled him off the step. Half the lads followed them around. I'll make Seron — erm, he's my…my…"

"Yes?" Gildis snapped.

Ioneth blushed. "Well, I'll make him tell me what he saw."

"Why don't you go and ask him now?" Gildis said sharply. "Make yourself useful."

"I have to go back to tell Beldir you're all right anyhow," Ioneth said to Morwen, ignoring the housekeeper.

They watched her kick up gravel as she ran.

…

When they made it back to the empty house, Gildis helped Morwen undress and find a clean, but understated alternative.

"It's a shame, this was the last of your mother's good clothes," Gildis said as she folded up the stained dress.

Morwen thought her mother would forgive her, given the circumstances.

"What will you tell Lord Halmir?"

"I'm hoping once he's sober he'll forget."

"Men drink to forget and grow sober to remember."

"Then let's hope that he will also remember decorum and sensibility. And silence. Underrated virtues, in my opinion," Morwen muttered.

"Oh, he's made it public, Morwen. You will have to answer."

Morwen knew in her heart that Gildis was right. Looking back, Halmir had spent the entire afternoon building up to that announcement. And even longer - from the cloth to accepting the invitation despite mourning his brother's death.

"If only he fell off the dais onto his face," Morwen mused. "And split his lip. Nanneth could stitch his mouth closed."

Gildis sniffed disapprovingly. "Don't go wishing things on people you wouldn't wish for yourself."

Morwen sat at the table and rubbed her eyes. "It doesn't make any sense, Gildis."

Gildis stood stiffly by the door, the dress cradled in her arms. "It makes perfect sense," she replied.

Morwen gaped at her.

The housekeeper's wiry eyebrow lifted. "From a certain point of view."

"Did you realize what was happening?"

Gildis pressed her lips very thin.

"_Gildis." _

The older woman picked invisible lint off the dress in her arms. "I thought it would be Lord Hundor who would come forward. Lord Halmir had settled in Minas Tirith and would certainly find a wife there. And he might have, but for Lord Hardang's death." Gildis sighed. "It certainly upsets affairs."

Yes, it had. Stars! Morwen tried to imagine her eldest cousin's reaction had he been present. But that proved impossible. Hardang existed in a sensible world that he had taken with him upon his death.

"Will you be along soon?"

Morwen nodded.

As Gildis closed the door behind her, Morwen marveled at the woman's far-reaching gaze. Hers had always been so close to home, rarely wandering past the next season.

Alone, the shock ebbed away, followed by a hot, bubbling fountain of anger. The wine had given her a stomach ache and made it impossible to stem the tide of events of the day that crowded around her, hemming her in, till any peace she might have enjoyed in the solitude of her chamber choked her like weeds around a seedling. She stifled a moan of frustration, grinding her palms against her eyes as the memories came, quite unbidden.

Morwen hadn't known what instinct had propelled her, maybe the over-bright look in Halmir's eyes, but she had greatly desired to pull Halmir back down off the platform, to silence him, anything - but he would go on and she had felt constrained by the good breeding demanded of the lady of the house to not make a scene. There was the confusion after Halmir's announcement. The stiff silence. The tangle of explanations and compliments on her left. And Morwen, sitting in the seat of disaster while bells jangled in her ears half the afternoon as boys and girls danced. Thank the stars Adrahil had not come to witness the spectacle.

Small consolation!

The entire valley, half the men of Arnach, and the crown prince of Rohan were witnesses in Adrahil's stead. How long before the news spread all over the fief and beyond?

Whatever she had expected or suspected, namely that her kinsmen were shirking the irksome retirement of deep mourning, that he should come to pay her court had never crossed her mind. Though she now realized it had certainly crossed others'. Her neck and cheeks burned to the touch just thinking about it.

And how could she face her guests after Halmir and Hundor shamed her? Not just with ridiculous announcements, but outright snubbing the prince. She prayed Thengel would take his men and go. If she had to provide him with a cart and horses for Guthere, she would do it. He could keep the lot of it if only she didn't have to face him in her humiliation.

What could Halmir possibly be thinking of? Morwen asked herself the question over and over like a weathervane in a gale. Round and round they went went at full tilt, making her sick to her stomach. What had come over Halmir? They were cousins removed some by two generations, it was true. But never, not once had he expressed any attachment to her - friendly or otherwise. Until the cloth - the stupid cloth. She'd mistaken the gesture for condescension not romance.

_She _had never thought to marry until the moment of his very public broadside. Marriage was a vague _idea_. She knew it happened to people - sometimes to people she knew. Nothing to trouble herself over. For some women marriage was an economic necessity. For others, the result of passion. Fortunately, she was a stranger to both want and longing.

Of course, she had never thought of marriage as a method for controlling someone. And that's what he had attempted to do, announce his intentions publicly to embarrass her into accepting him for some undiscoverable end.

The meanness of it made her want to scream.

Morwen tried to remember what her mother had said about their courtship. They were both older by Gondorian standards. Hirwen saw Randir in the marketplace in Minas Tirith. He tried to make a joke and failed, then in his embarrassment bought a barrel of apples for twice its worth after walking off without collecting either the change or the apples. Hirwen hunted him to the Archives. She liked his absent-minded charm. Later he admitted that he had to live on the apples for a month because he'd spent all his pocket money. They were married the next year. Hirwen's uncle gifted the land and lodge so they could support themselves.

They had been giddy and foolish and natural, but at least they were in love.

Feeling that she had taken more time than she ought to herself, Morwen rose and left her room. The air felt cooler in the empty hall. The fire which had been neglected since dawn had whittled itself down to a few red embers. She found a wrap hanging over the back of her father's chair and threw it around her shoulders.

The afternoon had crept along and soon her guests would return to the hall, so Morwen built up the fire with another iron. The scent of woodsmoke and the warm light provided a temporary balm. She had spent most of her childhood feeding things into this fire. As long as there was a fire here it felt like home.

It made Morwen wonder about the near empty garth in Arnach, south along the Erui deep in the vale. She did not know Ferneth well, despite the relative nearness of their homes. The people of Lossarnach were not many compared to some fiefs and they stuck to their vales and hollows. They would come together in wartime under their lord's banner if need be. Her mother's kin had been like that. Not overly close - certainly not the way her father's kin in Belfalas were. He always maintained careful records off all his cousins and wrote to all of them as if they were brothers and sisters instead of remote relations. That had been easier when he was one of the Steward's scriveners in Minas Tirith in the days before he met Hirwen.

The tap of boots on the kitchen threshold, which were too heavy for Hareth's, sent a chill down Morwen's spine. She tugged her wrap tighter around her shoulders as she rose. A flimsy shield.

"I thought I'd find you hiding here."

Morwen ground her teeth. "Hiding?"

"Peace, I don't want to fight," Halmir said as he stepped into the firelight. He had dropped the theatrical tone he had worn that day like a pantomime robe, and though his voice still sounded thick, it no longer contained that dreamlike quality of the drunk.

Water droplets caught the firelight as they fell from Halmir's wet, flattened hair. He smeared the moisture away from his brow and flicked it off his hand with a sneer.

"Why are you all wet?" she asked.

Halmir glowered at her. "I had a meeting with a rain barrel, compliments of your _guest_."

"Oh no," Morwen moaned.

"Oh yes," Halmir griped. Then he winced and gripped his forehead. "This prince of yours has a short fuse. Though why he can't mind his own business is beyond me."

Morwen paled. What on earth had compelled the prince to provide her cousin with a dunking? She wished he had ignored the whole stupid spectacle rather than participate in it.

"I have to return to the orchard," she said in alarm. To apologize? To assess the damage? To gain a modicum of control?

"They can do without you for a little while," Halmir grumped.

"So can you, but I have a duty." Of course it made the duty sweeter if it prolonged the wait for this dreaded conversation.

Halmir positioned himself between her and the hall doors. "I insist."

"Fine. Get it over." Like pulling a tooth or a scab.

Her surrender seemed to throw him off. Morwen stared mulishly at the fire while he regrouped. She could feel him contemplate her profile.

"You are very beautiful," he said, as if only half aware that he spoke aloud. "I wonder when that happened? I used to think you looked like Hundor."

Morwen rolled her eyes. More useless compliments…and a dig.

He shook his head. "I see my error now," he continued. "The announcement was ill done. It ought to have been discussed privately between us before I claimed anything publicly."

Claimed? The range of possible retorts staggered her. She bit her cheek, giving him a look that willed him to go back to the party - or Arnach - if he valued his continued existence.

He kept talking.

"Morwen, I realize my plans are premature," he said groggily, "but I did not ask you to marry me on a whim."

"You didn't ask at all!"

Halmir winced again as her retort knocked around in his skull. "Well, it goes without saying, doesn't it?" he replied. "I had no choice after I realized how this prince had encroached on you."

She gave him a sharp look. "You have completely invented this scenario, Halmir, which I find baffling."

He held up his hand. "Listen, please. You and I have both experienced great losses within the space of a year. Your venerable father and my brother. The world is an uncertain place for you, a young woman, and for me, the mere servant of an infant lord. Our house - the house of Lossarnach - lies vulnerable. But you and I - we can strengthen it."

"Vulnerable? To what danger?" she deigned to ask. If a risk existed, she wasn't sensible of it.

Halmir sent a black look out of the window. "Even now there are some who would continue to whittle away at Halgemir's line until there's nought left but little Forlong. Who will defend the child's interests if all the men have gone to Ithilien? Wasn't Hardang enough to satisfy the lords of Minas Tirith?"

She stared. Did he mean Prince Thengel? If Rohan could spare its crown prince in the defense of Gondor's borders, who was Halmir to complain if Lord Ecthelion required Haldad's useless younger sons?

"Your preference for your kin in Belfalas is no great secret and I know you don't love me," he added. "I won't pretend I love you either."

She glared at him.

"Yet."

"Halmir—"

He held up both hands. "Please, Morwen. We don't love one another _yet_, but we could one day."

"Are you willing to take that gamble?" she demanded. She sank into her chair, resenting her cousin for tainting the comfort she always found under her own roof. "On an eventuality? The odds look bleak to me."

"Marriage is a gamble." He scoffed at her naivety. "How many besotted fools come to regret their choice after their blinders fall off?"

Then his eyes lit up, he came toward her with arms wide as if he had been handed revelation from the herald of the gods. "But you and I don't have to be fools. We will go into it without pretense. We could be happy for the very fact that we are not in love."

The way his sodden mind worked made her dizzy.

"You're mad." She would have laughed but for the tearful constriction in her throat. "I don't respect you either, Halmir, let alone love you," she told him. "Without that, there's little hope that either of us would be happy. In fact," she tilted her chin defiantly in the air, "I would plague your heart out."

He looked like she had bit him. She admitted to herself that the last bit had been childish, but that was more honest to their true relationship than what he proposed. His hands disappeared behind his back while his jaw worked. Morwen remained in her father's chair while Halmir paced the floor - albeit unsteadily - before the hearth. She pitied the buckskin rug he ground under his feet on the pivot at the end of each lap.

"How long do you intend to stay?" she asked before the monotony of his movements drove her into a frenzy.

"As long as it takes to receive a favorable answer, my dear." He sounded almost cavalier, perhaps in an attempt to conceal how her brash words had hit a nerve.

"Halmir," she said steadily. "It is easy to give. My answer is no."

He stopped to look at her, eyes dark with disappointment. "Think of the suitability, Morwen," he said quietly.

"You have described it to me at length. But it would be unconscionable for me to accept your suit," she pointed out. "You should be in mourning. _I_ have no desire to wed."

He waved off her objections. "A woman who does not desire to wed? Impossible. All women want to marry. That is their portion."

Morwen ground her teeth. "Not mine."

"I will persuade you," he said lightly, unperturbed by the scowl on her face.

"No, Halmir, you won't." She tried to sound firm. Did he truly believe he could simply will her feelings in whatever direction he wished? If one thing was true of this valley, it was that Morwen reckoned for herself.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. "But I will. I can. I don't boast idly, you know. Do I look anything but deadly serious?"

Morwen wanted to cross her arms over herself but kept her hands planted firmly on the armrests, fingernails biting into the wood. "What persuasion could you possibly use? I don't love you and a husband is of little use to me. I am in full command of my dowry and I have a house and land to provide what I need."

Halmir saw light and he smiled. He waved away an invisible vapor.

"Oh, you have that little stipend from your father, the youngest son of the youngest son of some long-dead prince? Is that enough to live on?" He stopped pacing to lean in over her. "Do you have land, Morwen? Did your mother give you that? You have been allowed the _use _of land. It was given to your mother and father by my grandfather since yours had nothing to provide his only surviving _daughter_. Ah, there's that second son again," he said with a curl in his lip. "But it was a peculiar arrangement. The land was a lease and a verbal agreement only. Unless you have a certificate somewhere no one else has seen? Do you have that, Morwen?"

Morwen began to see light. Something like ice formed in her stomach. For the first time she felt that Halmir's bravado might not be all bluster.

"Speak plainly," she told him.

"Gladly." He turned away, arms crossed as if hugging himself. "Your have no claim to Bar-en-Ferin as your own. You have no right to succession on tenement land. In fact," he said, facing her again. "You only remain installed in your beloved orchard at the sufferance of the Lord of Lossarnach."

Morwen's eyes burned, scattering firelight reflected in unshed tears as he outline the vulnerability of her claim to the plantation.

"As far as I know, the Lord of Lossarnach still suffers it," she countered, though her footing felt precarious.

"But the lord's regent questions the wisdom of the arrangement."

"And who is the regent?" she asked defiantly.

"I am." He gave her a smug smile.

Morwen had never thought of him as truly ugly until that moment. She rose out of her seat, feeling at a disadvantage as he stood over her and understanding set in.

"Halmir, are you strong-arming me into marriage or into giving you Bar-en-Ferin?"

He touched her cheek. "It is one and the same, Morwen dear."

She danced hurriedly away from the chair and out of his reach. It shamed her to recoil and her resentment rose up in her like a scream.

"This scheme is beneath you. Hardang would never have countenanced it."

Halmir's face twisted into a sneer. "It would not have been necessary if my brother had not fallen in Ithilien," he said resentfully. "We have his son to think of and our own line."

"Your brother managed his household without absorbing mine."

"My brother's loss is a heavy blow, Morwen." His voice sounded stern, as if she were a recalcitrant child, unwilling to heed her betters. "Hundor and I are persuaded that our grandfather could never have meant for so much good land to leave the family."

"It has not left the family," Morwen pointed out stiffly. "He was my mother's uncle. My great-uncle."

"Perhaps. But when you are married, as one day you will be," he said over the sound of her scoffing, "it will only pass further and further outside the line. Unless you accept my _happy_ alternative."

It was a little late to strike a noble figure, Morwen thought acidly. He was a beast.

"What does Ferneth say to all this?" she wondered belatedly.

Halmir made a sour face. "Ferneth has as much to say about this as a decorative cushion would have in the furnishing of a hall. Besides, the poor woman is grief-stricken and recovering from a difficult labor, which she suffered through alone. And as the eldest surviving son of Haldad, I must take up the mantle until my nephew comes of age." Halmir's voice softened. He sounded almost affectionate. "Morwen, I am not trying to take Bar-en-Ferin away from you. I'm trying to share it with you."

Morwen fumed. His selfishness galled her enough without all this whitewashing.

"It isn't yours to share," she retorted, refusing to be drawn in. "My parents built up this land to what it is today. Yours never cultivated it."

He dropped the mask of affection like a rock. "I think you'll find it is mine to do with as I please until Forlong—"

They were interrupted when the hall doors opened. Cenhelm and Gladhon entered with Guthere strung between them. Halmir backed away from Morwen, but it was the Rohirrim who looked sheepish.

"Are you unwell?" she asked Guthere.

He looked sweaty all over, but he said, "Oh, well, no…."

"He grows dizzy and short of breath after so long," Cenhelm answered. "We let him overdo it."

Morwen crossed the hall toward them. "Should I call Nanneth?"

Cenhelm shook his head. "No he just needs a rest. We see this kind of thing often when blood's been lost." He glanced over at Halmir. "Pardon the intrusion."

Stung again, she allowed them to pass into the corridor. When they were gone, Halmir passed beside her toward his own room.

"Where are you going?" she asked suspiciously.

"To have a lie down. My head's split," he grumbled. "But consider what I have told you, Morwen. I expect a more favorable answer soon. Until then, we will trespass a little further on your hospitality."

"Trespass is the only correct word you have said all day," she called tartly.

He turned back to glower at her from the shadows. "You know what I meant, Morwen. And you know that in truth _you_ are trespassing on our hospitality and our good will. Good night."

Morwen watched him go through bleary eyes. Oddly, that made her feel better. She never cried when she was in real trouble. Only when she was deeply frustrated. If Halmir believed he could cow her into taking him or giving up her home, he was mistaken.

She would be iron and ice.

* * *

AN: Apologies for the delay. November was a difficult month health-wise, including a hospital stay. But Morwen and Thengel should be back to business in the new year. :)

Halgemir - first lord of Lossarnach

Hathol and Hador: sons of Halgemir

Haldad: son of Hathol

Hirwen: daughter of Hador

Hardang, Halmir and Hundor: sons of Haldad

Morwen: daughter of Hirwen


	12. Rain barrels and waves

"That'll do, my prince. It won't help to drown the fellow. "

The calm of Cenhelm's voice dispersed some of the red fog clouding Thengel's brain. He had one hand on the lip of a rain barrel and the other squeezing the back of Lord Halmir's neck, half of which he's submerged into the rainwater. A net of black hair floated at the top of the water, disturbed by a storm of bubbles.

Thengel pulled Halmir up by the man's scruff and received a shower of water for his trouble, though his sleeves were already drenched. He was made to let of go of Halmir by Cenhelm. The lordling coughed and sputtered and dripped all over the grass, seemingly unaware of anyone else until he could catch his breath.

"There," said Cenhelm to Lord Halmir, helping to steady him. "No hard feelings. Only you weren't too sober and it was getting out of hand."

"Let go of me," Halmir sniped as he wiped rivulets of water from his face. He stumbled backward away from Thengel's guard who had assembled around the barrel to keep the rest of the guests at a safe distance, complaining loudly of cutthroat barbarians.

Thengel turned to follow Halmir, but Cenhelm stayed him. The lordling disappeared around the front of the dais into the crowd.

"Give Lord Halmir a proper head start before you tackle him again," Cenhelm said. "Or put your own head in the barrel for a cooling if you aren't wet enough already."

Thengel glanced down at his dripping sleeves and tunic. Halmir had thrashed around like a hooked shark. "There's nothing wrong with my head."

"Only you don't use it at times. My lord, it isn't your place to thrash the young people. Save that for the Steward's enemies."

Thengel pretended to ignore this, listening to what was said among his men.

"Barbarians," Thurston drawled. "Hhn."

"Do you think he means us?" Guthere asked.

Gladhon, on whose arm Guthere was leaning, eyed the grizzled head wound and scabbed over scratches.

"He wasn't referring to himself, that's certain," he said.

Thengel accepted a cloth from Thurstan who had gone to fetch it from the dais table. He scrubbed the water from his face and neck.

"Where is Lady Morwen?" he asked.

"She went back to the house with her serving woman," Thurstan answered. "Just about the time you introduced Lord Halmir to the barrel."

At least there was that, Thengel thought. "Good. She doesn't need to see her cousin just now."

"Lord Halmir also scarpered off that direction." Thurstan thumbed over his shoulder in the direction of the house. "I'm not sure what good you did beyond clearing his muddled head for another round of marriage talk. Though that smirking grub, his brother, is still around if you'd like a go at him too."

Gladhon frowned as he craned his head toward the orchard gate. "Now we won't hear Lady Morwen's answer," he complained.

"That's the point," Thengel muttered.

"You aren't curious?"

"No," Thengel snapped. It was the resounding word in his head when Halmir announced his intentions. Halmir in his blinding tunic and curled hair would never value the woman with the dirt of her beloved orchard under her nails.

Gladhon shrugged. "You don't seem keen on him asking her."

Thengel nearly drilled Gladhon into the ground with the look he gave. "Asking? He told her to marry him," he muttered. "That isn't how it's done."

"How would you know, my lord?" Cenhelm said dryly. "You've never tried."

Thengel tossed the cloth back to Cenhelm. "For good reason." Which he wasn't about to explain to them.

"I also fail to see how this turn of events between our hostess and her cousin are any business of yours," Cenhelm droned on. "After all, you aren't her protector."

"No, I'm not." What did that have to do with anything? Thengel gritted his teeth. For a man to come to a lady's home with a small army, devour the eatables, drink himself into a stupor, then put her on the spot in front of her guests. Well, it flew in the face of decency. Self-centered, overbearing, egomaniac…it was exactly the sort of thing Thengel's father would have done — if Lady Morwen had been a side of beef.

And now Thengel's own men were questioning whether he ought to have come to Lady Morwen's defense? Fengel King has certainly sent his son the most annoying riders he could come by.

Thengel swore under his breath. He needed to get free of Hardang's brothers and his own guard to retrieve his native tranquility. Turning abruptly, he took off down the nearest path beneath the trees. Nothing like exercise for venting steam.

"Where are you going?"

"Farther up and farther in." He waved them off when they tried to follow. "No, I want to go alone."

…

Thengel walked alone under the apple trees high on the orchard slope beyond the range of other guests until his sleeves were nearly dry after the soaking and his anger cooled to a few smoldering embers. He barely felt the little pebbles and grass tussocks beneath his feet as he walked, but the uniform lines of flowering trees had a mollifying effect on him. Thengel observed, dryly, that if he had encountered more fruit trees in his life things might have gone otherwise for him. And he clung stubbornly to that thought, because just behind it came the recollection of what had just happened. His mind darted around it the way a fly rises and falls around a pile of horse shit. He was the fly that didn't want to land.

He had begun to breathe normally by the time he reached the last of the apples. The west wall loomed over the curve of the slope and the lines of trees ended in the green sward. Just a few strides ate up the distance and Thengel stood before the door leading beyond Morwen's — or whoever's — property into the woods. He gripped the handle, then remembered the lock required a key that lay in her possession.

"The door is locked."

Thengel recoiled from the door, swiveling around to find the cracked artist sitting with his easel just within the shadow line cast by the trees. The old man held a brush in one hand that dripped paint onto his blessedly clothed knee.

"You need a key," Teitherion croaked.

Years must have passed since a mere civilian had caught him unawares since he developed the instincts of a trained ranger. He thanked Bema that Ecthelion wasn't hard by to witness the slip.

"I know," Thengel managed to say around his confusion.

"Lady Morwen keeps it, I believe," that artist added helpfully.

"Does Lady Morwen know you're sitting up here?" Thengel asked.

The artist shrugged. "Of course. We have an agreement. She allows me to paint in peace as long as I remain garmented."

Bless the woman, Thengel thought.

Teitherion's eyes puckered up as he took in Thengel's appearance. "You're the exiled prince, aren't you?"

Thengel's eyes slid sideways in case anyone else happened to be nearby. The conversation had a familiar ring to it. Thengel already thought the artist's mind had proved less than balanced. He could add forgetful to the list.

"Yes," he answered hesitantly.

Teitherion sniffed. "I painted your portrait."

"You said so when I stayed at your hut."

Teitherion blinked rapidly. Then he shrugged and continued painting. "Did I? Oh well. What was the name of your steed? He has wonderful lines. Very proud bearing. A pleasure to paint."

The question stabbed Thengel in the chest. "Fyrwylm. He _had_ wonderful lines."

"Dead?" the artist weedled.

"I sent him back to Rohan before he was too old to enjoy the plains again, but…yes. You painted him, as well?"

A cunning look spread across his face. "If you ever want it I'd be happy to sell."

Thengel frowned and said, "I thought you donated it to the Archives."

The artist shrugged. "I could withdraw it."

Thengel took a step backward. He felt half tempted, but knew the old scammer simply knew how to exploit his loyalty to his first mount. "I'm not interested."

"No? That's unusual," the artist said thoughtfully. "It's a cunning painting, if I do say so myself. A memento for you. Besides, most important people are fond of looking at their likenesses."

"I prefer not to look at myself," Thengel groused.

Teitherion gave him a knowing glance. "If you don't know how you look, how can you fix your appearance?"

Thengel groaned inwardly. That's what he didn't like - saying something completely innocuous only to have a sage twist those very words into something erudite and irritating.

"If you want to reconsider, try looking it up in the Archives when next you return to Minas Tirith." Teitherion rooted around in his stained bag then handed Thengel a pulpy square of homemade paper. He painted a name across it in an shaky hand. "That's the archivist who curates the art collection. Ask for him."

"Right." Thengel shoved the card into his sleeve - forgetting about the paint until it was too late. He swore under his breath. Blue-black paint streaked down his wrist and the paper stuck to his skin. An angry color. It struck him as odd. He looked up. The sky which had been blue in the afternoon had begun to cloud over with gray. This was not the color of the sky.

"What are you painting, Teitherion?"

The artist gestured for Thengel to step around the easel and see for himself. Wave upon wave heaped up over one another. In the background of the painting a silver-white spike struggled to keep its head above the water.

The image confused Thengel. "I thought you'd paint the trees."

Teitherion snorted. "I've painted thousands of trees in my time and sent them all to market with Lady Morwen's folk in the summer for people with no taste and little pocket money to purchase. Why on earth would I want to paint more?"

Thengel looked around them. They were surrounded by trees. "But you're in an orchard."

"An artist doesn't have to paint what's directly in front of him," Teitherion said sourly.

"Then where do these waves and that spike come from?"

Teitherion squeezed his eyes shut. "Dreams." He shuddered. "Nightmares. The people of this country have always been haunted by rising waves…and _the _land under waves."

He hadn't meant to, but Thengel found himself backing away. The artist opened his eyes.

"You won't get out that way," Teitherion continued.

Thengel stared. "What?"

The artist prodded the air in Thengel's direction with his paintbrush. "The garden door behind you. You can't get out that way. You'll have to go back down through the orchard."

"I don't wish to get out," Thengel muttered to himself. _Just away. _

…

AN: Apologies for the delay (and any typos I've missed in my rush to get this out). RL does get out of hand and very busy. Thank you for reading!


	13. Threes

CH 13: THREES

The sun had started to set behind the western ridge when Thengel, tired and fed up, said his goodbyes to his friends and wandered through the twilight beneath the beech trees lining the road. Morwen hadn't been at the gate when he passed through.

Domestic sounds of the servants cleaning up drifted in from the kitchen when Thengel entered the hall, but the main room stood empty. He crossed by the table where Guthere had been tended by the healer. Someone had scrubbed the blood away during those first difficult days. He paused and considered the table.

Curiosity over a grassy road in a shaded wood had led them all to this table. When they first arrived, the house and the inhabitants didn't have a story, but slowly he had come to know Lady Morwen and her folk. Today he felt the story had jumped ahead a chapter and that Imloth Melui contained more than trees and deer and a few backwoods cottagers. What part the story marked out for him he didn't know. Perhaps no part at all.

He left the table behind for the study door. The hall behind him looked deserted as well as the corridor. But the instinct that had deserted him in the orchard had returned and told him that though he could not hear or see anyone he had entered occupied space. Carefully he opened the study door. Darkness shrouded the chamber except for the glow of a low fire. He looked across the room through the shadows and saw the figure of a man reclining on the couch against the wall.

At first Thengel thought Halmir was asleep. He cursed under his breath. But Halmir stirred on the couch when Thengel let the latch clink against the door. The man groaned and clasped his head, which gave Thengel some satisfaction. He lit one of the candles fitted in a sconce on the wall. Halmir winced at the small light it made.

"You don't seem well, Lord Halmir," Thengel said wryly.

Halmir groaned pitifully. "I suppose I should thank you for the wetting," he muttered acidly, leaning forward to bury his head in his hands, "rather than sticking my head on a pike overlooking the orchard."

Thengel's breath stilled at those words that seemed to echo back to him through time and space. A grey wooden fence covered over in moss arose in his mind. It surrounded a crooked hill that rose out of the plain like a nose on slat-cheeked giant. At the top of the hill sat a golden hall that housed an aging man with the greasy remains of his meal congealing in his beard. Those words, that threat, had been the last thing he ever said to the king, his father.

B**é**ma, he hadn't taken Halmir for a tactical fellow, but the man knew how to upset Thengel's balance with expediency. Judging by the brightness in his eyes, Halmir knew he'd made a hit.

"Yes, I heard that is your preferred method of dealing with men who get in your way," said Halmir. "Not very delicate with your threats, are you. Heads on pikes. Morwen might not know that she is harboring a traitor, but I know what you are."

Thengel bit his tongue, as it tended to be the root of any trouble he landed himself into, and stared down Halmir with little love until he could think with a semblance of clarity.

"Your rooms are down the hall, I believe," he managed to say with an even tone.

Halmir snorted. "Yes, but how else am I to have a word with you without your Tulkasian thugs hanging around?"

"I would suggest you avoid it entirely," Thengel replied, keeping his tone detached, "before you wade too deeply into matters that do not concern you."

Halmir shrugged and rose from the couch. "I will make them my concern if you continue to meddle in mine. This is your only warning."

Thengel felt the prickling of fine hair on the back of his neck at Halmir's pretentious tone. Who did this pretender think he was? And just how did Halmir imagine Thengel was meddling, as he put it?

"I will do as I please, lordling, without deferring to you," Thengel replied. "Your threats mean but little."

Halmir's eyebrows twitched upward over his ferrety face, which looked even longer when his hair hung dankly around it without the fabricated curls.

"Are you certain? You see, Prince Thengel, Morwen devoted herself to her father. She cannot fathom how a man with any human feeling could threaten to murder his. Do you really believe she would tolerate your presence as a guest if she knew?"

Thengel crossed deeper into the room, past Halmir. "She has the sense to know that people cannot be blamed for words spoken in the rashness of youth."

"Can't they? Then why hasn't King Fengel recalled you? On the contrary, Prince Thengel, your assault on my person rather confirms that you have not grown out of this so-called rashness of youth. In fact, I could lawfully demand satisfaction from you."

"Satisfaction?" Thengel laughed, a dry, mirthless sound that caused Halmir to step back as if unnerved by this unexpected reaction. Halmir's face flushed.

"Do you find law and tradition humorous?"

"No. Law and tradition have their virtues, which is why its humorous that you should invoke them. You were drunk in a public place and received due treatment," said Thengel once he stopped laughing. "If anyone has the right to demand satisfaction, as you say, it's Lady Morwen."

Halmir shivered like an angry dog when another had stolen his bone. "You can laugh at me, but at the end of the day you're still just an exile with no home and prince with no country."

Thengel caught the invisible gauntlet and approached Halmir slowly. Though he stood no taller than the Gondorian, he had width and presence that came with holding a line of men by his side against an onslaught. Halmir leaned away.

"If you continue in this manner, lordling, I promise you'll get a taste of this temper you're so keen to remind me that I possess. You've annoyed me more than once today and it's not in the Rohirrim's temperament to forget an offense. You've harped on my meddling with whatever scheme you have up those gaudy sleeves of yours and I tell you I wasn't meddling, but you're making it my business when you come serving me threats. If you do it again I'll get a hold on you that you won't easily wiggle out of. Understood?"

Halmir had the sense to keep his mouth shut, but he managed a sneer before he beat a hasty retreat through the study door.

Thengel stationed himself in the chair behind the desk and stared the door down, half expecting a line of accusers to follow in Halmir's wake. Why not get it all out of the way at once now that his temper was primed and ready?

When no specters from his youth appeared, Thengel resigned himself to the last accuser left in the room, his own conscience.

Thengel had not expected his past mistakes to be flung in his face, let alone by a man he had known for less than a day. After he had proved himself in the defense of Gondor these last twenty years, was it possible youthful indiscretion could overshadow any renown he might have won? Nobody spoke to him of those years until that wretched night they spent in the company of Teitherion. His guards were instructed not to, he believed rather than knew, and Thengel never asked. Neither had his adoptive father and brother, Steward Turgon and Ecthelion. Not since Thengel's first night in Minas Tirith.

He did not like the idea of exposing his past misdeeds to Lady Morwen. He told her that he had disrespected Fengel King that day when they walked to Anorian's well. An understatement. Disrespect earned a boy a hiding in Meduseld. Disturbing the king's peace with murder threats could not be ignored. He tried to reach back into that memory to feel the heat that fueled that desire and found he could not rekindle it in the semi-dark of Lord Randir's tidy library. In its place he felt only a cold, damp regret.

Thengel's fingers curled around the spine of the book he had borrowed from Lord Randir's shelves, a history text of Numenor and its kings and queens. He'd slogged through it most of the night before. He opened to a random page and read.

_The moral breakdown of the king and heir relationship, in which the flouting of authority lay, this began with the Prince Aldarion and Tar-Meneldur. This same rebellious and stubborn pride spread into his marriage to Erendis, ultimately tainting the line and ensured a bad end. In all senses, the decay which began before the reign of Tar-Aldarion, engendered again in his heir Tar-Ancalimë, was but a seed of the audacity behind the usurpation of the throne by Ar-Pharazôn and the sinking of Númenor._

Thengel closed his book in frustration. So, even the paragons of the West took issue with their fathers. But to blame the collapse of a civilization on a boy who wanted to go to sea seemed ridiculous. The words had a weight to them, though, which Thengel could not shake. Division spawned weakness. In a family. In an army. An enemy could render a company twice as vulnerable if it managed to part its men.

Thengel had learned that lesson the hard way and it had cost them the Lord of Lossarnach. Then by some perversity of nature, Thengel had found himself ensconced in Hardang's cousin's home while his friend slept in the ground. And perhaps the only service Thengel had managed to render Hardang's cousin had taken the form of a barrel.

Why though? Thengel couldn't recall the details exactly. There had been the distressed look on Lady Morwen's face after her cousin's speech, the last straw in the a pile of offenses which involved turning this beautiful place into a parade ground, and then he remembered Cenhelm urging him to release his grip on the sodden Halmir who was doubled over in the rain water like the greasy duck he was.

Of course, it had taken the rest of the afternoon for Thengel to see his actions with any clarity. Halmir's words had revealed old anger and it disturbed Thengel.

He had felt happy pretending to exist in a new story. Who was Halmir to remind him of the old? Or Teitherion, for that matter. _How can a man change his appearance if he won't look at himself?_ Did everyone think he was the same man who left Rohan nearly twenty years ago?

A knock at the door scattered his thoughts like so many leaves. Thengel put his book down and called out for whomever it was to come in. Cenhelm pushed his head around the door.

"May we have a word, my lord?"

Thengel grunted. "Why not. They say trouble comes in threes."

"My lord?" Cenhelm frowned his concern.

"Nevermind."

Thengel waved him inside. Thurstan followed behind Cenhelm but stayed near the door. Cenhelm stood stiffly before the desk and it gave Thengel an uneasy feeling. They had not spoken of the feast and his men had given him wide berth after he returned from his walk in the orchard.

"Well?" he asked.

Thurstan nodded at Cenhelm, who cleared his throat. "We've talked it over, Thurstan, Gladhon, Guthere, and I. They didn't want to come in and tell you this themselves, as it's a volatile subject, so I've taken it upon myself to speak. "

Thengel gave them both an arch look. "But you brought Thurstan for backup?"

Thurstan crossed his arms, which amounted to an assent.

"I'll try to contain myself," Thengel answered, folding his hands over the desk.

Cenhelm nodded. "Thank you."

"So, what is it?"

Cenhelm glanced back at Thurstan, who shrugged.

"We've been in Lossarnach for a week," Cenhelm pointed out, "and with this new development we should seriously consider returning to Minas Tirith despite your predicament."

Thengel tapped his fingers on the book and tamped down his immediate negation. He wanted to return to Minas Tirith as much as he wanted to stick his hand into a scorpion's nest. The chaos that awaited, the expectations, the wretched parties - Thengel wanted solitude. He almost told Cenhelm as much, but he knew the men expected him to react somewhere on the strong side.

"It has," Thengel agreed reluctantly. "But can Guthere handle the return journey?"

Cenhelm glanced out the window into the dark. "He will require frequent rests, of course. The journey will take twice as long, but I think it would be best."

Thengel leaned forward so his arms rested on the desk. "Guthere needs more time. Lady Morwen won't begrudge us two bedrooms."

Cenhelm and Thurstan exchanged a meaningful look.

"But the situation has changed, Prince Thengel," Cenhelm continued starkly. "I cannot guarantee your safety, especially as I doubt Lord Halmir is used to the indignity of being washed in a barrel."

"Cenhelm's afraid you'll be killed with Halmir's men about. He'll have failed his duty," Thurstan supplied. "Besides, no new bairns, no new princes."

Thengel shot them exasperated glances. "If you're so worried, where were you lads half an hour again when I found Halmir sitting in here waiting for me?"

Cenhelm paled and Thengel almost felt sorry for him. "What is this? We were with Guthere."

"He's a fool, but I doubt he's fool enough to retaliate, Cenhelm," Thengel assured him, fully regretting telling them anything. "He talks a lot and says things he shouldn't, but I wager he only picks on people he believes won't fight back. I set him straight on that score."

Cenhelm clenched and unclenched his fists. "Forgive me, Prince, I should have -"

Thengel raised his hands. "Peace, Cenhelm. I'm far from helpless."

"Be that as it may," Cenhelm growled, "it's my duty to protect you."

"Another chance will present itself, I have no doubt."

"Certainly if you go asking for it, my lord," said Cenhelm stiffly, wounded by Thengel's flippancy.

"I?"

"Besides, Thurstan witnessed a row between the Lady's folk and those toy soldiers from Arnach for putting up tents in the yard."

Thengel scratched his chin, looking around Cenhelm shoulder at Thurstan. "A row, you say?"

"Yes. I went out to relieve myself and that scarecrow Beldir was fit to be tied - and might have been if I didn't break it up," said Thurstan. "Their tents covered the ground from the dooryard to the orchard gate."

Thengel frowned deeply. "If tensions are high here perhaps we might repay Lady Morwen for her hospitality by lending her support."

"What business is it of ours? None," Cenhelm demanded. "You are not authorized to intervene in matters such as these. In which case, can you justify staying?"

Thengel shook his head, and though he agreed with his guard, he didn't like it. He didn't have any authority in domestic disputes, let alone Lossarnach's affairs.

"It's a sorry business leaving her on her own, though."

"I doubt Lady Morwen would welcome your pity. She's made of metal, we've all seen that," said Cenhelm. "Besides, _your_ business lies in Minas Tirith. We cannot stay forever."

Thengel sighed. "Yes, I know."

Cenhelm blinked in surprise. Thengel smiled ruefully, knowing full well that he had expected the prince's usual angry retort when he suggested returning to Minas Tirith in the spring.

But he couldn't face those duties awaiting him in Minas Tirith wholeheartedly, not unless he relinquished the bitterness he felt. In his mind, taking a greater interest in Rohan's policies, in marriage, and having an heir of his own in preparation of his own future kingship, all meant that despite the leagues between Rohan and Gondor, Fengel still had his leash on his son. It meant that the old tyrant had won. Béma, he thought he'd dealt with that long ago. Yet there was a difference between banking a fire and throwing water over it. Perhaps it would be best to be guided by his men.

"How long will it take to prepare to leave?" Thengel asked.

"We can be ready at first light," Thurstan answered.

"Not first light," said Thengel. "I will need to speak with Lady Morwen and it would be best not to bother her tonight."

Thengel dismissed them and picked up his book again. He heard the door close but when he looked up, Cenhelm had returned to the desk and placed himself in a chair in front of it.

"Tell me what happened with Halmir," said Cenhelm.

"I handled it, Cenhelm," Thengel replied dully.

"You are my prince, but I answer to Marshal Oswin, your uncle. And believe me I'd rather anger you than disappoint him. So, allow me to do my duty."

Thengel scrubbed his forehead with calloused fingers. Cenhelm was a compass that always pointed back to Marshal Oswin and it gave Thengel a headache. The old rider never asked anything unreasonable and maybe that's what Thengel struggled with the most, because he always had to give in. Almost always.

"Alright," Thengel sighed. "Halmir threatened to hit me where he believes my weakest flank to be."

Cenhelm folded his hands in his lap. "Which flank is that?"

"My past."

Cenhelm looked puzzled. "That's not a proper weapon. That's…what do they call it?"

"Blackmail."

Cenhelm's gray brow dipped down over his eyes like a raincloud. "But that won't work. Your past is no secret among your friends."

"He thinks he can mar my reputation with Lady Morwen."

"What's she to you but a friendly young lady? This Halmir doesn't know what he's about. But then, he isn't a soldier." Cenhelm laughed in the hearty manner of man who has had a heavy weight lifted from his chest. "You frightened me, Prince Thengel. I thought he tried to knife your back. Let the coward carry tales to the women."

Thengel felt the moment drew out before Cenhelm became aware that his prince wasn't laughing too.

"You aren't bothered by this, surely?" Cenhelm asked, incredulous.

"I don't like to disappoint her," he admitted.

"Disappoint Lady Morwen?" Cenhelm balked. "How? Because she would see the good of you along with the bad?"

"You have to admit my bad is…worst than most."

"Only because your responsibility is greater. In proportion to others, your mistakes are just like any other man's."

But Morwen certainly would think less of him if she knew the extent of his mistakes, Thengel felt sure. After all, she had been generous with her help and he liked to think, perhaps vainly, that he was somehow deserving of it. It had been so long since he met with people who were not aware of his past that he'd forgotten the discomfort of discovery.

"Cenhelm, you've been with me nearly a year. I never asked if you remember the night my uncle Oswin spirited me out of Edoras. I know you served in his éored at the time."

"Yes, I served in Marshal Oswin's eored for thirty years before he sent me to Gondor." The older man's shaggy eyebrows were nearly lost in his hairline, perhaps wondering where this was going. Then slowly he said, "Ever since you arrived in Gondor, the Marshal has always made sure at least one of the warriors assigned to you knew you as a boy - who can remember you as you were."

Thengel stared at this new revelation. His guard rotated out every three years and were selected at random by casting lots. At least, that's what he had been told. "How could Oswin do that without rigging the drawing?"

Cenhelm snorted at surprise on Thengel's face. "He rigs it to be sure."

Thengel whistled a shrill note, imagining what Fengel would do if he knew. "But why?"

Cenhelm leaned toward Thengel. "Because there are those who feel their prince deserted his duty to the Rohirrim. You might have done much as you grew older to curb Fengel King's avarice had you not been so hot-headed."

"Fengel exiled me," Thengel reminded him, stung by his guard's blame, "I didn't leave of my own free will."

"Marshal Oswin negotiated your exile. The king wanted blood for blood and had the right," Cenhelm countered. "You were exiled by your own will when you put your anger before the good of the people. Anger, not your past, will always be your weakest flank if you allow it."

Thengel had always taken delight in the release of diving blindly into the red haze of his anger. And he had been angry. At eighteen. At thirty-eight. That evening. This afternoon. His mother's face. Lady Morwen's. That dais, the drunken figure of her cousin had brought the years back to him. Anger, his old friend. The great motivator. Truth be told, he didn't know if he had washed Halmir or Fengel King in the rainwater. Halmir possessed the same selfish impulses. Didn't someone have to stand up to the bullies, be they kings or minor lords?

Now Thengel leaned forward. "I felt angry on their behalf. Fengel took no care for them. When my mother begged him to let her restore the royal banners at her own expense, he would rather burn their history than put less meat on his own table."

Cenhelm looked at Thengel strangely. "Do you imagine you are worth less to the Rohirrim than those banners? Banners can be remade," he pressed, "As if we would forget our own history if it wasn't hanging in front of our noses. We keep it here and here." He pointed to his head and his chest. "Better for the people if the banners had burned than to lose their prince."

Thengel sat back in stunned silence as the words took root in his mind. Worth more than the ancient banners of Rohan that hung in Meduseld long before he was born. Was he?

Thengel had always believed that being right and doing his duty were one in the same. Right to protect the banners that were falling off the walls in decay, to take his mother's side, even to threaten the king's life.

At eighteen it had seemed so much clearer. At thirty-eight, the banners were merely the last straw in a long line of insult and injury, which had begun in earnest when Thengel came of age to train as a rider. Fengel had refused to allow Thengel to train with the others, denying him the chance to earn the respect and trust of the men he would one day lead in defense of the Riddermark. Fengel, always paranoid that his son might uproot his throne before his time, had undermined his son at every turn. Thengel, being a hotspur ruled by his spleen, had played right into Fengel's hands. Instead of leading the Rohirrim, Thengel had won renown in the woods of Ithilien as Gondor's lieutenant while Fengel's throne remained safe and intact behind leagues of grasslands and the Firienwood.

He thought he understood a sliver of just how little that would merit him in Rohan where fewer riders remained who served under his uncles Fastred and Folcred and died side by side with Gondorian soldiers. Most of his people had never seen Gondor for themselves or spoke the Common Tongue.

"Now that you are here and have seen me, do you believe what you said?" Thengel asked quietly. "At least the banners still serve a purpose in Rohan."

"I said it would be better for the people," Cenhelm answered gravely, "not for you."

Thengel's eyes narrowed as he tried to puzzle out what Cenhelm had said. "What do you mean?"

"You are not the prince you would have been had you never left the Mark. You know more of the world, of our allies and our enemies, Thengel Thrice-Renowned. You're out from under the boot of Fengel King and that's a heavy burden."

Cenhelm grew thoughtful for a moment. "And yet you too easily slip away from your duty as crown prince. I think exile has been very good for you - but tell me, _mīn hlāford_, how then have you behaved any differently than your father?"

A blood roared in Thengel's ears. He shot out of the chair as if it had turned hot as coals. But the fire was burning him from the inside.

"I have spent my entire life trying to be different from my father," he growled.

Cenhelm appeared unmoved, even to have expected the reaction. He looked Thengel in the eye and seemed sad. "We can only avoid becoming our own fathers by degree, my prince. Fengel King eats his duty. You dance around it. The Rohirrim lack a leader either way."

Thengel stared at Cenhelm, unable to speak. Before long he found he could not look Cenhelm in the eyes either. He turned away toward the window. It was not so easy observing oneself from another man's perspective. No wonder he had never invited it before.

Cenhelm's chair creaked as the rider rose to his feet.

"There's plenty of fodder to feed on, so I'll leave you after just one more question. You know who will be waiting for you in Minas Tirith and what he will expect," said Cenhelm, once again breaking into Thengel's thoughts. "Are you prepared to stop dancing?"

Thengel stared out the window for a long moment, but the darkness had turned the glass into a mirror. Slowly, he nodded.

"Then some good has come of this journey after all."

…

AN: Thank you for reading! I apologize for the vague references to Thengel's past. I did write about the incident in a story that is as yet unpublished. As I find time, I hope to post it.

mīn hlāford: my lord

Tulkasian: Eh, I made it up. Tulkas is, of course, the Vala with pugilistic tendencies, known for intimidating even Melkor.


	14. Farewells

Prince Thengel stood on the threshold and held out his hand. Fat raindrops pooled together in his palm. He blinked upward into the rolling gray clouds hanging low over the valley like uncarded fleece.

"We seem fated to travel in the rain."

"It's springtime." Cenhelm drew his hood over his forehead. "Don't take it personally."

Thengel gave his guard a wry sideways glance before they both walked into the rain from the dry warmth of the house. Cenhelm shouldered their bags and went right, crunching over the gravel yard toward the stable nestled beside the other outbuildings. Thengel cut around the left side of the house toward the orchard lane.

The silver mantle of clouds hovered heavily over the valley, dripping steadily over the groves of beech trees and staining the garden wall a deeper gray. It smelled of wet earth and moldy canvas, for there was almost as much square feet of tent as there was of sod where Halmir's men had taken over Lady Morwen's lawn as their campground. The lawn, which had been peaceful and empty the day before, now teemed with men.

Familiar faces called out morning greetings to him. The unfamiliar stared openly until he made eye contact. Then they suddenly found themselves busy with bowls of congealed oats or rifling through bags.

Thengel gritted his teeth and walked on into the rain curtain until he passed through the orchard wall where the dogs greeted him looking half their original sizes as the rain pasted their fur down. They barked loudly with unintelligible news, licked his hands, and ran on. He followed them until he found Morwen half-hidden by a tree, wearing one of her old work dresses and boots. A faded red-brown cloak and hood hung damply from her shoulders. Her long braid lay coiled inside the hood and a leaf had caught itself on her hair just behind her ear. Wisps of fine hair clung to her damp neck and cheeks.

Morwen had just climbed down the ladder and was speaking to Beldir when he and Beldir exchanged stiff, dripping nods by way of greeting.

"Forgive me for interrupting your work," he said to Morwen. "I wanted to speak to you. Would you walk with me please?"

She answered by pulling her hood up over her head and stepping out from under the tree, away from the ladder. He followed her down a line of cherry trees beginning to feel as gloomy as the weather. The rain had caused many of the beautiful petals to fall during the night. The evening didn't appear restorative to Morwen either. He had learned to read her expression better as his stay progressed, and she was in a sour mood, judging from the thin press of her lips and furrowed brows.

"Nobody's working down there." She gestured down a line of trees toward the covered dais.

"We don't have to go far," he said as she led the way. "No doubt you have much to do in the garden."

"Some of the trees have developed cankers, most likely after they were trimmed last year and spread by the same shears. Beldir thinks Gundor had that row, but I think it probably belonged to one of the miller's daughters." She rolled her eyes.

Not knowing exactly what to say, he tried to gauge what that meant for the trees from her expression. She looked as grim as before.

He coughed. "That sounds…serious?"

"It isn't too serious if we can stop its spread now. Beldir and I are debating the merits of a poultice over leaving it to the air to heal, but that probably won't interest you."

"It sounds quite interesting," he said cautiously.

She cast him a skeptical look from under the hood.

"That is, I wish I could hear the full explanation, but I am afraid my men and I will be leaving within the hour. I wanted to say goodbye and, of course, to thank you."

She turned and blinked at him. "Goodbye?"

He bowed his head. "As you are no longer lacking for guests, we plan to ride for Minas Tirith this afternoon."

"Not all of you, surely?"

"Yes, all."

Lady Morwen peered up at him from under her hood. Her expression could have leveled him. "But Guthere cannot make the journey yet. He barely lasted the afternoon in the garden. And it's likely to rain for some time. Making the trip today seems unnecessary and unwise."

Maybe he should blame residual irritation from the day before mixed with the prospect of a wet day's journey ahead of him, but her choice of words rankled Thengel's pride.

"We will travel slowly and spend the night on the road," he said with deliberate calm. "Cenhelm and I both agree it is both necessary and wise."

"Nonsense."

"Nonsense?" he asked with deliberate calm.

"Moving Guthere now will set back his health terribly," she said, her voice crisp. "Even if you fancy traveling for two days in the rain at least leave him in my care until he can ride again."

She said it so firmly he was taken back. He couldn't tell if it was an invitation or an order. He could understand if Halmir made her grumpy, but he didn't see why she should direct her ire at him.

She was in distress, he reminded himself. With a cousin like Halmir harassing her, who wouldn't be? So he settled with a lame, "You don't mind being out in the cold and the wet."

"If I don't work I don't eat, Prince Thengel," she pointed out. "And I'm not suffering from a head injury."

"No, but I don't think Guthere would like to be left alone."

She gave him a challenging look. "You might ask him."

Thengel inclined his head, partially to show agreement and partially to hide his annoyed expression. He didn't know he'd been suffering from an illusion, but there it was. He expected Morwen to maybe feel a little sad to see him go, certainly not to argue with him.

"I will ask him," he said, "but I really don't think it's best."

"He will be perfectly safe with me. We aren't that overrun."

"I never said you were," Thengel began.

"Then what are you afraid of?"

"Well…" Bema, she wouldn't make it easy for him, "Inconveniencing you, of course."

Thengel wondered how she hadn't moved a muscle, and yet she seemed to have stepped away from him. Her eyes rounded into wide gray circles and her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Had it been an inconvenience I would have told you. It is not," she said coldly. "You came to me for help. Now we have to consider what is best for Guthere."

But would it be in her power for much longer? Thengel wondered. Still, she didn't look like backing down and it truly would be healthier for Guthere to remain where he was. Possibly healthier for Thengel too, for the young woman had a stormy expression of her own.

Thengel slowly realized his mistake. When he told her that they were making room for her other guests, he had insulted her by questioning her hospitality, to the extent that they would drag a sick man into poor weather conditions rather than stay. And probably he had poorly masked his dislike for her cousin. Her abrupt manners, he thought, was a shield to keep him at a distance.

"I don't mean to criticize your hospitality, Lady Morwen. I would like to stay, if I could. As it is, I have neglected my duties in Minas Tirith for some time and must return."

"Of course," was all she said.

They stood regarding one another in silence. Thengel decided to begin again. "I see I've upset you," he said. "I hope you'll forgive me for anything I've said. Though I can't help but notice that your manner toward me is different this morning. Is there something else I have done? Be frank. After all, I think we've become friends by now."

"Frank?" She looked at him squarely as if gauging whether or not he meant it. After a long moment, she spoke. "Then tell me, are you really leaving for business or because of my family?"

His expression gave away the answer.

Lady Morwen pressed her fingers into her eyes. "I knew you would be disgusted with us."

"Us?" he asked. "You don't think I would lump you in with Halmir and his brother? You have nothing to be ashamed of. It's the rest of us who behaved out of turn."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Lord Halmir and I had an unpleasant conversation and as a result I confess I behaved discourteously toward him," he said. "I should apologize for my loss of temper, specifically in the wetting of your cousin. As he is also your guest, I ought to have treated him with more courtesy."

Where she had been cold before, her eyes were flashing now. "If you must apologize, it should be to Halmir, not to me. I can't say I'm sorry at all," she said heatedly.

Thengel bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning at her sudden fierceness. He liked it when it wasn't directed at him.

"And I have the feeling that Halmir provoked it," she mused. "Won't you tell me what you talked about?"

Thengel remained silent while he thought over what to tell her. "I made the mistake, my lady," he said eventually, "of supposing Halmir and Hundor were cut from the same cloth as their elder brother. I was mistaken. I offered to help them where help was not wanted."

She gave him a blank look.

"I offered to help them find stations among Ecthelion's officers, for their brother's sake," he said. "The invitation was declined."

Morwen paused, stunned. "You mean they didn't want to join the defense in Ithilien."

"They have no sense of duty," he said before he could stop himself.

Certainly serving as officers under the Steward's captain in Ithilien would provide an honorable outlet for two young men of few resources and noble birth. Unless an outlet presented itself that required fewer deprivations and greater safety.

Morwen reflected, "You're wrong, Prince Thengel. Halmir and Hundor have a strong sense of duty — to themselves."

Thengel scrutinized her for a moment and then an uncomfortable thought entered his mind.

"Are you safe from Halmir?"

She looked surprised, then grave.

"Morwen?"

She gave him a strange look. "I think so," she said, "Yes of course. Beldir pointed out this morning, rightly, that we need only tolerate this until he grows bored and returns to Arnach." She smiled not very kindly. "Patience isn't one of Halmir's virtues and I am certain he won't stay long."

Thengel was relieved to hear that she sounded optimistic, if grimly so. Of course she could handle herself. He just needed to get out of her way.

There seemed little more to be said and the hour of Thengel's departure drew nearer, weighting the silence that fell.

"I'm happy to know you, Morwen," he said candidly. "I'm sorry your festival didn't go as planned, but for what it's worth, the valley does you credit. We have had a very comfortable time here."

"I'm glad," she replied, sounding much more like herself, "though I wish your travels had gone better. I've never made anyone's acquaintance over a cracked skull before."

Thengel laughed, despite the rain and foul moods. "I hope for everyone's sake it is the last time."

"Agreed."

They shook hands. Hers felt small in his, but strong of grip, calloused and remarkably grubby. She could be imperious as a princess and earthy as a farm hand. He smiled at the odd mixture.

She noticed him studying her hand and gently pulled it away, though she didn't apologize for the dirt.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Nothing." But then he decided to add, "Only, I've observed that those who aren't afraid of hard work are better equipped to meet trouble when it comes."

"Is that a prophecy?" she asked.

Thengel shook his head. "Knowledge tempered by experience."

"Ah." She pulled her cloak more firmly around her shoulders as the wind picked up. "Goodbye, Thengel. Maybe we will see you again when Guthere has improved."

"I'll be back, provided he doesn't ride off on his own in a fit of boredom."

She smiled a little then, which made him feel extremely gratified. And another thought occurred to him.

"If you need help — anything at all before I return for Guthere — you can ask my friend Adan. He is trustworthy."

Morwen nodded. "Thank you, but what more can Halmir possibly do? Embarrass me, yes. Annoy me, definitely. But this will probably all blow over with the rain. He might be in Arnach again by the time you reach Minas Tirith. I doubt there is much more to worry about."

Thengel hoped so, too, as he threaded his way back through the orchard. Still, he would make a point to find Adan before he rode off with Thurstan, Gladhon, and Cenhelm. Thengel didn't know what sort of a strategist Halmir might be, but he knew a man didn't shift five score axmen around the countryside only to give in after two days.

...

Adan met Thengel at the stable door where a lot of other men were milling around. Gladhon already waited in the yard, tying on the last of his belongings to his saddle.

"Taking off, then?" Adan said.

"That's right." Thengel passed him inside.

He looked around and spotted Cenhelm and Thurstan conferring over a bag of food Thurstan had collected from the kitchen.

"No Guthere?" Thurstan asked.

"No," Thengel answered.

Cenhelm grunted. "Mollycoddling has gone to his head. He won't be fit for anything soon enough."

Thengel shrugged. "Once he's on his feet Lady Morwen won't tolerate a sluggard."

"That is true," Thurstan said ruefully. "I thought climbing trees would pass the time easily. Now my back aches and my feet still feel the ladder rungs."

Thengel clapped him on the back. "Then you've earned your keep." Then his voice turned grim. "You'll forget all about it once we reach Minas Tirith."

He made a sign for Adan to follow him down the aisle to his horse's stall. Rochagar sidled in his stall, anxious to join the other horses now leaving their boxes for the open yard.

"Listen, Adan," Thengel said, grabbing a brush. "As you've heard, Guthere will remain here until he can ride on his own."

"We'll look after him," Adan told him. He offered Thengel the saddle pad once he finished brushing down Rochagar.

Thengel folded the saddle pad over the horse's back, saying, "Lady Morwen's household will do well enough for him. It's Halmir who needs to be watched. If Lady Morwen needs help I want you to do what you can for her. That's an official order. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll answer for you if the lordlings give you trouble."

Adan brought Thengel the saddle. "I know, sir."

"Oh, and another thing," Thengel said as he placed the saddle on Rochagar's back and looped the tie strap. "Don't tell her that you're on the lookout. I think she would find it…"

"Patronizing?"

"Yes." Thengel reached for the bridle.

"I won't say a word unless I have to."

Thengel nodded. "Thank you, Adan. I know I can rely on you."

"Remember that when you're back in Ithilien."

Thengel latched his travel bag onto the saddle, then he clasped Adan's hand one last time and led his horse out into the dooryard. He disliked the scrutiny of so many unfamiliar men and wondered again if he let Cenhelm talk him into making a mistake leaving Morwen alone with a gang of bullies. It didn't seem fair.

And yet, Morwen had provided a means for him to return if it came down to it - whether she knew it or not. Maybe she did? For a second he contemplated the possibility that she knew keeping Guthere would allow her to see Thengel again, had arranged it, even.

He tamped down that thought. Morwen was a practical woman, after all, and rather too young for him. Capable, independent, pretty, but Gondorian. Why was he entertaining that thought anyhow?

He needed Minas Tirith and a dose of reality. Without Guthere slowing them down, he would get both by nightfall.

...

AN: Thank you for reading! Sorry for the length of time between posts. Busy life is busy.


	15. Ill Usage

A/N: Fair warning, this chapter is rife with typos. But it's been an ungodly long time since I've posted and wanted to get something up asap.

...

Morwen limped toward home. She flinched as a raindrop struck her eye when she looked up. It would rain on a day like this, she thought, when everything seemed fixed to set her in a foul mood. The cold didn't help either. It felt like autumn and that worried her.

The crux of the matter, she told herself, was that Thengel simply couldn't know that her father had also left for Minas Tirith on this day a year ago and that he had died over night in his sleep. Thengel didn't know and so he couldn't foresee how his unexpected departure would make her feel sick to her stomach. And on top of that, to think she couldn't handle Halmir.

Well, even she felt a little uncertain on that score.

And the end of it all was that Beldir had sent her back early after she took a misstep on the slippery ladder rung and wrenched her ankle. Not because she had done serious damage - it felt bruised but still bore weight - but because she become too gloomy even for him - and for the dogs who chose to stay with him.

The evening meal would be served soon besides, he had reasoned. That she would want to dry off beforehand, she agreed wholeheartedly. But she didn't want to be anywhere near the house. She felt much more comfortable behind the walls of the orchard where not one of Halmir's people had dared to follow.

She shivered beneath her damp cloak. It was too wet to wear much longer, even if she did want to keep out of the house. The rain filled the air with the scent of damp sod and what Morwen always thought of as a wormy smell. A few of the birds thought so too and a few were still out hopping over the grass to get the last worm for supper, undeterred by the sound of a single human scuffling along the road. She wondered if Prince Thengel and his men were yet within eyeshot of the Rammas Echor and if they were feeling just as cheerless. At least they didn't have to sleep out in the rain with Guthere to slow them down.

Gritting her teeth, Morwen saw the yard stretched out beneath the beech trees. Every inch of level ground had disappeared under a tent, just as it had been when her disbelieving eyes had first seen them that morning. They were various colors from muddy yellow to homespun to Ithilien green. And musty smelling. She tried to find the path between all the tents and accidentally upset a bucket of filth just outside of one sleeper's half tied doors.

Disgusted, she left it to lie there as she pictured many, many more buckets all needing to be emptied somewhere that wouldn't contaminate the well. And who would do that?

…

The pitch of antagonistic voices reached Morwen's ears before she had a clear view of the front of the house, where the sound came from.

"Hunting them is all very well, man, but what am I to do with them now?" Hareth's sharp voice pierced the dooryard. "Split its guts open in the kitchen, juices and all? I think not."

Morwen squeezed her eyes shut before rounding the corner of the house. She took a deep breath, and then walked into plain view of the confrontation. Hareth stood in the middle of the kitchen garden armed with a handful of green onions. Across the beds of seedling vegetables and early lettuces, stood Adan and three other men who between them carried two dead bucks suspended on poles. Hareth's broad shoulders created a screen for Morwen to approach nearly unseen.

"Tell us where we can take them, then."

"Behind the smoke house, of course. And that's where you can hang them too, when you're done. " Hareth waved the onions at the outbuildings. "Don't let me see them again until they're clean or I'll run you off myself!"

Morwen cleared her throat as she stepped around the cook. "Those look fine, Adan. What will you do with the venison?"

"Whatever you will, my lady. To help ease the burden of so many."

Hareth snorted.

Morwen gave her a look to stall her from saying anything ungenerous. "Thank you, Adan."

When the men carried away their kill, Morwen limped behind Hareth back to the kitchen. It smelled of fresh bread and crushed rosemary.

"They're only helping, Hareth. You shouldn't antagonize them."

"I don't care for soldiers. They're just the sort who ran us off our land in Ithilien."

"It was Turgon's men or else the orcs would have."

"It's beside the point. And here they are, making more work for me. It's fine for them to hunt the deer — annoying, overgrown rats eating my garden — for their own entertainment. But expect me to clean it and butcher it and cook it so they can eat. It hasn't even aged yet. I wouldn't eat that tough stuff."

"But, Hareth, Adan simply wished to show you what he had brought," Morwen reasoned. "He didn't mean for you to clean it."

Hareth sniffed. "As if I cared. He should watch himself. I don't skin deer but I have a fillet knife recently sharpened and no fish to use it on."

"I prefer you didn't fillet Adan. At least he tries to help."

"He is still one of them."

"Prince Thengel says we can trust him."

"Oh yes? And where the prince now? Running off to Minas Tirith." Hareth slapped her hand over her mouth, as if not referring to the city would keep Morwen from remembering that she had lost her father a year before. People were so odd around other people's grief.

Morwen touched the cook's shoulder. "It's alright, Hareth."

Hareth gripped the table with both hands. "I'm not myself today," she said. "We're all on edge now."

Morwen edged around the long table toward the interior door that led into the hall. "I know. I am too."

…

Morwen's ears were full long before she left Hareth behind in the kitchen.

"Now just a moment, my lady!" Gildis's voice broke over Morwen like fallen glass. "I want a word."

Morwen stifled a groan and turned to sooth Gildis, though she had little enough left to sooth even her own frazzled nerves. Everywhere she went there were unhappy people to appease.

"You're favoring your foot. What happened?"

"I slipped on a ladder."

"Hmph. Well, I'll have a look at it. I wanted a word anyway."

Gildis followed Morwen into her chamber and forced her into a chair while she helped remove her boots. She stopped before removing the one over the injured ankle.

"Wait till I get something to bind it first."

"I don't think it's so bad."

Gildis pursed her lips, then said, "Let's not make it worse."

When Gildis came back she had strips of linen hanging over her arm. She carefully removed the boot with only a little twinging of the ankle. She checked the swelling, making thoughtful sounds that didn't seem to signify doom for Morwen's foot. Then she set about wrapping it.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" Morwen ventured to ask.

"Do you need to ask?"

Gildis complained less in words as in the way she held herself. Her taut shoulders spoke of ill usage at the last minute rearrangement of the household and the fires that had to be prepared and dishes to be collected and beds to be changed. Not to mention the care of an invalid. All of which she oversaw. Then there was the crossing of the arms and the frowning of the lips. Even Halmir's men were not immune to that stormy expression and they stayed out of the hall.

"I know it isn't ideal," Morwen said lamely.

"Hardly." Gildis rolled her eyes as she finished with Morwen's foot. "Hareth suggested poisoning them today when they came round expecting her to serve them lunch. Ioneth is terrified these men are going to—use her poorly—so she won't step outside, not unless someone else comes with her. And I want to know what do you intend to do about it?"

"Did you tell Hareth she couldn't poison them?"

Gildis gave her a stern look.

Morwen rose and began to inch out of her dress. The ties were wet and difficult to unknot, but it provided a welcome distraction. Gildis handed her a cloth to dry with.

"Any sign of Halmir?" Morwen ventured to ask.

"No, he left this morning with his brother. He didn't say where, but I think he asked Hareth for some food. It sounded like they would be out for a while."

"That's a relief. Maybe they won't come back."

Gildis snorted, as if to remind Morwen not to be silly. They hadn't spoken about Halmir's intentions toward her since Gildis had helped her change her dress after she spilled wine down the front of it the day before. They both knew it wasn't the sort of announcement one made and then simply walked away.

A part of Morwen's mind still couldn't wrap itself around what was happening in her home. It startled her to realize how quickly a familiar place could begin to feel foreign. Invaded.

Her heart skipped a beat. For a horrible moment she felt overwhelmed with anger - and the source of her anger surprised and grieved her. Of all the days of the year when she should be mourning him, she felt a sudden resentment for her father. For abandoning her. For leaving Bar-en-Ferin open to someone like Halmir, who would never have had the gall to ride roughshod over the place in Randir's lifetime.

And for what? Not knowing his heart had weakened? For dying overnight in her cousin's home miles away from her? Morwen recoiled from the flow of her thoughts, flooded with guilt. Her rational mind knew she could not blame Randir for any of this. She knew exactly whom she ought to blame. But sometimes anger came easier than grief. It found relief in exertion. It was its own fuel. Grief held on like a cancer and drained the life away. It left Morwen so tired.

And she felt tired of feeling tired. She needed to be clear-headed, alert, and decisive. Morwen pressed her fingers into her eyes, trying to put an end to this circular thinking.

"Finish dressing. Dinner will be ready before long."

Morwen jumped, having forgotten all about Gildis. The wet clothes were in her arms and she had one hand on the door handle.

"I'm not hungry."

Gildis frowned. "No, but your guest is. He shouldn't eat alone."

Morwen had forgotten Guthere, too. It was the first instance where she regretted talking Thengel into letting him stay. A selfish instance because it was one more obstacle to the solitude her low spirits desired.

Perhaps Guthere felt low, too, without his companions, Morwen reflected. Gildis was right. She had a duty. And a sense of duty, like anger, provided a sort of recourse.

…

Guthere waited at the table when Morwen arrived in the hall. He stared vaguely into the fire but looked up when she pulled out the chair next to him. Guthere tried clumsily to rise but she waved him back into his seat.

"So Hareth's sour looks haven't kept you away," she quipped, taking in his somber expression.

Guthere shrugged. "The Rohirrim don't back down so easily."

No? Morwen wondered. Instead, she said, "Not even when your companions have left you to fend for yourself, I see."

"I'd rather stay here with you, mistress, than face what they will face in Minas Tirith."

Morwen blinked. "And what is that?"

"It's the prince's name day soon. He never stays in Minas Tirith during this time of year. Avoids it like the Black Breath."

"His birthday?" Morwen stared. She had heard of many strange fears, but to avoid one's birthday?

"I guess you haven't heard what it's like," Guthere said, reading her expression. He passed a shaky hand over his eyes. "It's a nightmare. Each year Marshal Oswin, that's Thengel's uncle, comes with half the Riddermark."

"Riddermark?"

"Er, that's what we call Rohan, you see."

"Ah. And what exactly is the marshal's relationship to the king? I mean, I know the general idea of a marshal, but what is a marshal in Rohan? It sounds important if he is related to Prince Thengel."

"Er, well. Er. A marshal is our highest-ranking warrior, you could say. It's always been the king and he would assign others as needed. But Fengel King prefers the title without having to do the actual mustering the riders in Edoras. With some pressure, he agreed to assign a second and third marshal. One in the Eastemnet and one in the West."

"What is an emnet?"

"Well, they're the plains of Rohan divided by the Entwash."

"So the marshal has some kind of authority over your warriors in these locations."

"Yes. King's first marshal over all Mark and the land is divided between the second marshal and the third. Marshal Oswin is the second marshal of Riddermark. He dwells in the Eastfold in the old fortress at Aldburg. It was founded by Eorl himself."

"And the Marshal is the king's brother?"

"No, he is Queen Wynlaf's brother. Fengel's only brothers were killed at the Battle of Poros long before you were born. Folcred ought to have been king. It might have gone easier for Thengel."

"He wouldn't be in exile, you mean?"

"Yes, and he'd have considerably more personal freedom. He'd be a common rider like myself."

"He would still be the son of princes," Morwen observed.

"The son of the third son who isn't much liked." Guthere shrugged. "Rohan is a smaller country, my lady. Almost everyone can trace their lineage to a king's bairns. We don't make too much of it after a few degrees."

Morwen rose to bring some wine from the chest near the windows.

"I wish you could have talked to my father. He would find this very interesting. In Gondor we study our heritage very closely and all the nuances and intricacies of birth and alliance. My father wrote and corrected genealogies for most of his life under Steward Turgon's appointment."

"Gladhon said you were related to the Prince of Dol Amroth."

Morwen smiled. "I was not allowed to forget it growing up. My father, Randir, he kept meticulous correspondences with his cousins, always believing those connections were always worth preserving. Prince Angelimir even commissioned him to translate Numenorean poetry for him, which was no small feat, since it meant taking time away from his precious genealogies."

"Was he a proud man?" Guthere asked.

The question surprised Morwen and she had to think about it. "Not proud in himself, but he had pride in his lineage. He didn't have that smallness of character that some men have who are eaten up with pride. At least, I never observed it."

"If he served the Steward, I wonder why Prince Thengel never met him?"

"Perhaps they did, though Prince Thengel never indicated it. My father might not make an impression on a foreign prince moving in Captain Ecthelion's circles. He wasn't remotely a warrior. He married my mother and moved to Lossarnach before your prince arrived, if I have the timing right. His trips to Minas Tirith were shorter and usually for specific business or to visit Prince Angelimir during his stays in the city. And in the years after my mother's death, my father only took to traveling to Minas Tirith during the spring around this time. He would ride up with our cousin Adrahil and return after two weeks. It sounds like Prince Thengel wasn't around then."

Guthere snorted. "They would just miss one another."

"So, the queen's brother, the Marshal, comes every year with half the Riddermark for Prince Thengel's birthday. But I would think Prince Thengel would like to see his own people. It seems more strange that the king would allow it."

"Well, it's a necessity, isn't it?"

"How?"

"It's an excuse to round up all the girls and show them off a bit."

"Show them off?"

"So Prince Thengel can marry one of them, of course. King's got to have a queen.

"The Marshal brings him brides? Sort of like a market day?"

Guthere grinned. "That's hitting it on the head."

"But why?"

"You know, so the line doesn't end and then we have to dig a new row of barrows."

"Barrows?"

"Start a new line of kings, if you will. It's a saying. Though we're not overly fond of the king we've got right now, I'm only saying." He flushed. "I'd be grateful if you'd keep that last bit to yourself."

"So you are saying that when he left here, that's what he's going toward?" That was the duty he'd neglected?

"Cenhelm hopes so. It would take the load off."

"What load?"

"Having to tell the king that his heir died on Cenhelm's watch. And that he'll have to start all over again."

"Oh," she said dully. "I suppose it's late for that."

"For Queen Wynlaf yes. The king has cousins and nephews but that gets tricky. The king has alienated most of them one way or another. His own daughters won't see him unless it's by royal order."

"I've heard only a little bit about King Fengel," she admitted. "But Prince Thengel seems very different?"

"I wouldn't have credited it until I saw him for myself."

"You didn't like Prince Thengel?"

"Not till I met him. He's a good leader. But in the Mark, you have to understand, there's a bit of resentment because he's gone off and become a Gondorian. It's not right." He noticed her expression and amended, "I mean, nothing wrong with Gondor. It's just, you want a king not a foreigner."

"Surely they understand that he left under special circumstances."

"Oh, they know and all. But there are three things the Rohirrim excel at. Horse breeding, fighting, and resentment. We're good at brewing too, but we really excel at resentment. Long memories and short tempers."

She smiled tightly, since he seemed to be joking. "What a cheerful place."

"Aye, we like it well enough. Even the swampy bits, which if memory serves, your Steward failed to mention in his pact with Eorl. The size of that fen is considerable. And there's the creepy, haunted wood full of menace, which he also didn't bring up. And the Dunlendings. Speaking of lines ending, they're a nasty piece of work. But overall we're pretty well satisfied."

"I am…happy to hear it." Then she asked, "How long has this birthday practice been going on? It seems he's taking his time with choosing brides."

"Oh, about three years ago, I'd say. My niece went the first year, but said it was a waste of time."

"Why was it a waste of time?"

"He ignored them and slipped out of the city only half way through their stay."

"You mean he runs away from them? Is he afraid to get married?"

"Oh, he's not afraid. Prince Thengel just doesn't like to be told what to do."

"I can hardly blame him for that," Morwen muttered. She had a disappointing thought and asked lightly, "I suppose he has many duties to attend to in Minas Tirith."

Guthere snorted. "Oh yes, when he wants to. He doesn't like to be pinned down."

"Guthere, did he use my cousin's Hardang's death as a pretext to come to Lossarnach to escape his uncle?"

Guthere shifted uncomfortably, realizing he'd fallen into a trap.

"Didn't he?" she pressed.

"Don't think badly of him. The king wants him for an exile and a puppet at the same time. It has forced him to be mean, at times, and to act against his conscience."

Morwen couldn't help feeling resentful. Not that he had intended to meet her at all and include her in his escape from duty. That had been an accident. But to think of him coming to Ferneth in Arnach to express sympathy when all he wanted to do was escape the tedium of a royal visit rankled her feelings. The picture of him in her mind began to fill in a little more. She remembered Halmir warning her about him the night of the banquet, but admitting he might have been right - even a smidge - only irritated her further.

And yet, she understood how it felt to be hemmed in and have one's choices limited by other people's interests. Admittedly, the feeling was new. She wanted to resent Thengel for turning her into an unplanned prop in his attempt to distract himself from his duties. But would she do better as Halmir's stay lengthened? Maybe.

Guthere was asking her a question, but she didn't hear until the end.

"Pardon?"

"Do you go to Minas Tirith much?"

"Yearly. I do not like it," she said decisively. "But it is more convenient to meet my cousins there than in Dol Amroth. And we have the summer fruit markets. I have not been there since last summer." Then she said, "My father died in the city and we buried him there."

Guthere winced. "I'm sorry. When did he die?"

"A year ago today."

"Oh."

Morwen half-wished she hadn't said anything. The point in leaving her room wasn't to make her guest feel badly about her father. Shifting the attention away from herself, she asked, "So you a niece. Do you have any children of your own?"

"Who, me? No. None of the lads have wives or children. Well, Cenhelm was married once but she died of some illness years ago. The married warriors are disqualified from the prince's guard on account of the hardship it would bring to their families if they left for Gondor for three years."

Morwen nodded. "I hadn't thought of that, but it makes sense. You must miss your home."

Guthere shrugged. "There are moments, mostly in Minas Tirith. But when we're in camp it's not so different."

The front door opened, interrupting their conversation. Halmir and his shadow, Hundor, entered. They sat down at the table. Not long after, Ioneth came out with their meal.

"Ah, you see Hundor, we are not yet late for dinner."

Hundor shrugged.

"Where is the rest of your guest party?" Halmir asked. "Still waiting for them?"

"You haven't heard yet that Prince Thengel left for Minas Tirith this morning?"

Halmir's expression brightened. "Did he indeed? I didn't know that. Although they seem to have left one behind."

Guthere shrugged.

"Keeping an eye on the prince's interests, perhaps?" Halmir asked.

"He is still recovering from his accident," Morwen said coolly. "And where have you been all day?" Keeping an eye on your interests? she thought.

"Hundor and I rose early to make a pilgrimage to Anarion's well. They must have left after we were gone."

A territorial tremor ran down Morwen's spine. "What were you doing at the well?"

"We each left a token in memory of Hardang. He always enjoyed that place. And since it has been a year to the day we lost Randir, we left a little something for him as well."

Morwen frowned. "Why didn't you ask me to come too?"

Halmir looked down his nose at her and sniffed. "I did not think accompanying us would appeal to you."

Hundor said, "Besides, you can go whenever you want."

She stared, dumbfounded. Plates of food were brought in and distributed by Ioneth in silence.

"We should be able to put aside our grievances to honor your brother and my father together."

"I am happy to hear you think so," Halmir answered. "It gives me hope of future cooperation between us."

Morwen bit her tongue, too tired for a fight. She wanted to eat quickly, then escape to the safety of Randir's library to sort through all the different emotions that had settled over her throughout the day and to remember all the good times she had spent in there. Now that it had been vacated by Thengel.

"By the way," said Halmir. "Now that your father's rooms are empty, I don't think you'll mind if I take over. There are some volumes in his study I would like to look at for a project I'm working on. I read so late into the evening, you know, that I would be disturbing everyone creeping back and forth to my room. And he has that nice, large desk. The little table in my room is hardly sufficient to support a book and my notes."

"Then I can move into Halmir's room," Hundor said, "my quarters are too cramped. I should say, the quarters I have been given. My usual room was taken by someone else."

He cast a dark look in Guthere's direction, who was too busy eating to notice or care.

"Both of you will stay put," she said.

"Oh? Why?"

"Because Prince Thengel is coming back," she said firmly. "He will need it."

Even Guthere looked at her then. His fork was still in his mouth.

"Why?"

She nearly said to collect Guthere, which would be the truth. But instead she said, "Because I have invited him back and he promised he would."

Morwen let the implication, whether or not it was actually the truth, hang in the air. Halmir could eat his paranoia for dinner.


	16. Prodigal

Thengel glared at the looming walls of the Rammas Echor where a cluster of black and silver liveried guards stood in attendance beneath a dripping sky. The air felt cool enough, but the soupy spring weather made everything stick to Thengel's skin and caused him to sweat.

The portion of wall along the South Road looked in such disrepair that Thengel wondered why they bothered to post anyone at the checkpoint. Any traveler with the least ambition to climb over the Rammas Echor undetected need only tread a mile or so off the road to find a gap in the stone and mortar. When Thengel asked Ecthelion about it years ago, his friend merely shrugged and said the real defense lay in Ithilien anyway.

_And what if the threat ever came from the river? _Thengel had asked.

_Anyone wanting to invade Gondor's southern flank will remember what happened at Poros, my friend, and think better of it, _Ecthelion replied.

_That was an expensive victory for my people, _Thengel had wanted to say. It cost the king's heir and his twin brother, leaving the throne their younger brother, Fengel. But how could Thengel say so without sounding embittered? And so the wall crumbled on.

They passed the guards who eyed Thengel's small company shyly, offering idle remarks on the bad weather and a few hesitant welcomes. Men who didn't work with Thengel's outfit didn't know what to think of him or his honor guard. Was he one of them or not? He wore the white tree when he fought, didn't he?

Through the gate, the trees thinned out, opening into the pale green plain of Pelennor. Conversation along the road had been sporadic at best, but it picked up again now they were on familiar turf. Thengel wondered if each of the other men felt they were slinking away from awkward family business they had no right to witness, like he did. If so, then the closer they drew to the White City the more they seemed to forget. Gladhon and Thurstan were beginning to see the humor in their brief stay in Imloth Melui. Gladhon went so far as to admit feeling envious of Guthere's position.

"Guthere will grow spoiled," he said.

"If you wish to convalesce in Lady Morwen's household," Cenhelm said gravely, "first you must face the old crone with the chisel and hammer."

Gladhon paled. Neither he nor Thurstan were present for the surgery, but he knew Nanneth from growing up in the valley. He had also seen her handiwork on Guthere.

Thengel rode ahead of the others toward the high gates of the seven-story mountain spur that rose into a haze of low clouds. Gladhon could try anyone's patience. Besides, he wanted a moment to himself while he could still enjoy the luxury. He felt that the nearer they rode toward Minas Tirith, the nearer he came to duty, that constant thumb that pinned down his hopes and reminded him that home was like the little lights in a swamp. Enticing but ultimately unreachable. Oppressive in its elusiveness.

Remembering the brief reprieve in Morwen's presence did little to alleviate his dread going forward. The way he left Bar-en-Feren still did not sit well with him. He had studied Morwen's profile, the icy line of her lips, and the way she had stubbornly refused to look at him while he made excuses. Her feelings were hurt and she wasn't going to allow it to happen again. In that instant, he had recognized the resemblance between Morwen and her cousin Adrahil in her bearing. It reminded him of the proud woman who had stood over Guthere's side even though the sight of blood made her ill.

Not all shields could be held in hand, Thengel reflected, but they were shields nonetheless. He simply hadn't expected she would need one where he was concerned. It bothered Thengel. And yet, he thought cynically, he would soon forget that uncomfortable feeling soon enough. He always did.

…

The road met the thoroughfare from the Harlond the traffic to and from the city. They could see the great gates of Minas Tirith looking dull in the gloom. Cenhelm road up beside Thengel, taking his customary place at the prince's right hand. Thurstan rode closely behind.

"Look," said Gladhon, pointing ahead. "Pages. They've spotted you."

"We haven't passed the Old Guesthouse yet," Cenhelm muttered to Thengel with only a trace of sarcasm. "Brace yourself."

Thengel followed Cenhelm's line of sight. He saw two boys rush through the gates, to the annoyance and snarls of the guards posted there. One boy had straw-colored hair and the other had hair the color of crows and dressed in black and silver livery. Thengel watched as they tried to outpace each other, kicking up dirt and garbage behind, splashing through puddles, until they disappeared around the curve in the city wall. Who would be the first to inform either the Marshal or the Steward that the prodigal had returned?

"Gladhon, I bet you ten silver pieces that Marshal Oswin hears the news first," Thurstan ribbed, unwittingly mirroring Thengel's thoughts.

"If I ever have ten silver pieces in my purse at one time, friend," Gladhon's lips curled around the word, "I'd rather present them to a worthy publican than hand them over to you."

Thurstan smiled crookedly. "So you admit the little Gondorian is slower?"

"I didn't say that."

"Yet you refuse to wager."

"What do the Rohirrim know about running? You're all so short you need a horse to do it for you."

"Not too short to introduce you to my boot…"

Thengel tuned out the growing argument between his guards by minding the market day hum around him. He breathed in the stink of the first level, immediately propelled backward into his first memories of entering the city. At eighteen, his first impression was of piss and hot southern spices. Now that stench had stamped itself into his brain so that every time entered the city he felt eighteen again. Perhaps less afraid after 20 years, but still burdened.

The horses passed through the crush of bodies as one. There was always heavy traffic in the first level, of vendors coming to and from market, changing patrols, and wains carrying the cargo coming in from the Harlond. But it wasn't until the upper levels that the tone of the traffic changed and Thengel could pick out golden and auburn heads beneath the taller, straighter Gondorians with their black and brown hair. The conversation in the street blended and then fractured into a cacophony of voices, questions, demands, interjections in a language that both flowed and elbowed its way out of one's throat.

"_Se Æþeling!"_

"_Hwelc beorn?"_

"_Ic ne wisse. Ic I seah hem naefre.*_

"What are the foreigners saying?" Thengel heard a Gondorian housewife shout from a window.

"How should I know?" her neighbor answered.

"_Thengel Æþeling!"_

It reached a crescendo when they neared the stables in the sixth circle and were greeted by a delegation of straw-headed men, gathered together after news from the forerunners had spread. Naturally the place to find a horse lord was at the one public stable in the city of pedestrians.

Hands reached up to grab at Thengel's cloak. They received sharp checks with the sheathed, flat side of a hunting knife Cenhelm kept tucked in his belt.

"Now everyone stand back and give the prince some room." Cenhelm repeated the order in Rohirric.

To Thengel's relief, citadel guards appeared through the archway to quell the crowd.

The relief ended abruptly when a voice as old and deep as stone bellowed, "Thengel Fengelson! To me."

The mob parted around a man, clearly old, but remarkably hale. His hair was tied back in three heavy, white braids. On the man's hauberk, partially obscured by his long beard, stood a device of the lords of Aldburg, knotwork of two rampant horses embossed in gold.

Marshal Oswin.

Thengel felt his uncle's appraisal, but the man's eyes gave away neither approval nor disapproval. He didn't know what to do with…nothing. Whatever concessions Thengel had made to Cenhelm back in the peace of Imloth Melui, he now heartily regretted it.

"It is good to see you, sister-son, even with that deranged expression on your face." His accent was thick in Thengel's ears, yet he spoke as someone at home with the Common Tongue. "Has something disturbed your state of mind?"

"Too much humidity," Thengel replied. Easier to admit that then to the internal conflicts his uncle always evoked. He attempted to rearrange his face, but since he had no idea what he looked like, he gave up.

…

All men, Gondorian and Rohirrim alike, melted away in Oswin's presence. Stabling the horses turned into a quiet affair. Even the ostler couldn't be found.

Thengel's residence lay between two abandoned houses on the sixth level nearest the stables. The uppity Gondorian nobles who once occupied each house complained about the horsey smells and the bad humors they produced. No other owners could be tempted. At least, that's the reason for abandonment that Ecthelion gave Thengel years ago when he bought his place. Thengel liked the proximity to the stable, if only for the privacy from neighbors. In the summer though, the smell did tend to raise its head off the sunbaked stone and blow raspberries.

"I suppose you would like an account of our movements," Thengel said to Oswin as they passed into the small courtyard.

"Tomorrow," Oswin answered genially, "after you've had a rest. I will hear Cenhelm's report first."

Thengel frowned. Was this a report as Thengel's handler or as the leader of an honor guard? He looked at Cenhelm, who stared stoically ahead, and caught Oswin doing the same. Cenhelm had the unfortunate job of maneuvering between a rock and a hard place as long as the Marshal's visit lasted. Thengel almost felt sorry for him.

Eriston, Thengel's seneschal, stood at the bottom of the stairs to greet them. When they were nearer, the old servant bowed.

"Welcome home, my lord."

Thengel tried not to flinch at the word home. In Oswin's presence, it embarrassed him.

"Thank you, Eriston." Thengel took a closer look at the man. He looked drawn and pale. Oswin could have that effect on people. "Are you well?"

"Perfectly well, my lord," Eriston said weakly.

Thengel decided to have a word later with his uncle.

Once inside, Oswin and Cenhelm disappeared into the adjoining room. With a nod, Thengel dismissed Gladhon and Thurstan, who wandered up the stairs to their rooms. This left him alone with Eriston who had a tendency to melt into the background like a decorative column.

Thengel remained just inside the door with Eriston torn between standing attendance and wanting to shut it.

"Did you have a pleasant journey, my lord?"

"It was eventful, at least," Thengel answered, half distracted. Then he said, "There's something off here."

Eriston's gray eyebrows drifted toward his hairline. "Is there, my lord?"

"Yes." Thengel walked deeper into the corridor and looked over every inch of space. It all looked the same. Just a long passage with a row of doors on one side, the stairs on the other that led to the second and third floors, and at the end the door he assumed lead to the kitchen. At least, that's where the food smell came from. He never bothered to find out for certain, which suited Eriston just fine. The seneschal liked to keep definite lines drawn between where Thengel belonged and where the servants belonged. In Rohan, lines like that were used for playing hopscotch, especially since most everyone was related to each other by some degree. He had a distinct memory of being paddled as a child by the cook in Meduseld, a distant cousin on his mother's side, after he'd taken a few liberties with a meat pie intended for his father. Come to think of it, she probably received a lot worse than a paddling when Fengel noticed the pie's absence at the evening meal.

His mind returned to the present and his eyes told him that the house looked totally unaltered. And yet, he could feel some shift in the atmosphere.

"What has been going on here since my uncle arrived, Eriston?"

Eriston's cheeks turned a delicate pink. "Forgive me, my lord, but the Marshal has seldom been in residence since his arrival last week. I believe he has been mainly with the Steward." The servant tried to reach for Thengel's bags.

"I've got them," Thengel muttered.

Eriston sniffed as Thengel passed him for the stairs. "Shall I prepare the bath, sir?"

"Tomorrow. Just a bowl of water for now."

For some unknown reason - call it instinct - Thengel didn't want to leave his uncle unsupervised for too long. It was a case of keep your enemies close and your tyrannical relatives closer lest they plot in your absence.

…

Thengel dressed after his bath the next morning. The corridors were silent as he descended to the rooms where his uncle had taken up residence in his absence. The door to the study stood open and he sniffed appreciatively at the warm, spiced smell of breakfast.

The study had transformed into a military camp. His desk had a map draped over it and a few others rolled on top. Oswin's battle gear commanded one corner, while another sported a collapsible stool.

"Good morning," he said. "Shall I help you raise a tent in here too?"

Oswin turned away from a tray of dark sausages to cast his heavy gaze on Thengel. The older man's eyes were milkier blue than Thengel remembered.

"Good morning to you, Thengel," Oswin said affably. "Help yourself. I had Eriston bring breakfast in here."

He wasn't sure he liked how Oswin had adopted his servants as his own, but he was too tired to complain. After all, it meant not waiting for food. But he did have one observation to make.

"Why not eat breakfast in the dining room? That's what it's for."

Oswin gave him a sharp look. "I don't hold with rooms having one purpose. Waste of space."

Thengel scratched the back of his neck. "What about bedrooms?"

"Being a bachelor, I suppose you wouldn't know better," Oswin retorted.

Thengel shrugged.

He helped himself to a sausage and a few hothouse grapes before he trusted himself to speak again. When he did, he said, "So, you didn't bring half the Riddermark."

Oswin nodded. "You noticed they were all soldiers."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you with the lack of fanfare this year, but you see, you never come. It's hard to convince women and their fathers to travel a fourth time when you've managed to evade them all before. "

"So you came by yourself?"

"Well, someone should be on hand for your birthday. After all, this marks twenty years that you've been away." Oswin set his plate down. "And I've brought you a gift."

Oswin walked to a side table and picked up a simple wooden box with a bronze clasp. Opening the lid, he lifted a silver horn resting on a soft linen pillow. He held it out to Thengel.

"The Horn of the Mark."

The heirloom had belonged to Eorl. Generations of kings had passed it down to their sons. Thengel had to stop himself from sighing at the sight of it. He wiped his hands on his tunic before he picked it up and cradled it. It felt much lighter and smaller than when he had last held it. The runes and knotwork etched into the metal were as clear now as when he had first seen it.

He remembered having to sneak into his father's bedchamber as a small boy and ferreting out the box from where the king had hidden it under the bed. Thengel had learned at a young age that Fengel did not take kindly to his heir handling the treasures reserved for the king. Those were the early signs of his father's paranoia. Bile rose in Thengel's throat along with an implication.

He studied Oswin's impassive face. "Why are you giving this to me now? It must be important."

"Of utmost importance."

Thengel's heart guttered like a candle flame in a breeze. "Fengel King—"

Oswin's beard twitched. "Is alive and well, if somewhat bilious. That is not why I brought it."

The adrenaline rolled off of Thengel like water from a duck's back. He took series of deep breaths before his heart slowed down. He could watch an old woman pop off a piece of Guthere's skull without a twitch, but the possibility of a coronation made his hands shake. Thengel sat down in the nearest chair, still cupping the horn.

"Good news, then. Have a seat." He hooked his boot around the leg of the nearest straight-backed chair and dragged it toward his uncle.

Oswin accepted the seat and took his time observing his nephew. "Wynlaf wanted you to have it, truth be told," he admitted.

Thengel used his tunic to studiously polish off a bit of finger grease from the silver lip. He didn't look up when he asked, "How is Mother?"

Oswin said nothing. What had Thengel expected? That between her husband and her son she felt rung out and at her wits end? He realized he couldn't remember the sound of her voice, that over the years even in his memory of their conversations, she had begun to sound like Oswin. Perhaps if she had learned to read and write then Thengel would have her own letters to keep her voice and tone alive in his memory. But very few of the Rohirrim ever learned to speak Westron, let alone to read and write. He sometimes regretted the oral aspect of their traditions. It made his isolation that much more complete when every piece of news from home had to be translated by his uncle, a soldier.

"Why did she choose the horn?" Thengel asked. He turned the heirloom over in his hands. It felt strange to have it here in Minas Tirith and he half wished to make Oswin take it away again. Stranger still, he hadn't known how hungry he felt for a memento of Rohan.

"She thought her son might need the reminder of his duty to the Mark."

Thengel remembered Oswin telling him that Queen Wynlaf had a way of maneuvering the king when she thought it was worth the effort. He hadn't believed his uncle then, but he was beginning to see it for himself. Oswin alone couldn't have managed so many concessions on his nephew's behalf without aid.

Maybe the queen believed she could maneuver Thengel as well. The thought rankled him. He got up, replaced the horn on the cushion and closed the lid over the so-called reminder of duty. He let the anger pass through his fingers until he felt empty. Then he tried to swallow whatever pride he still possessed in the presence of the man who had seen him at his worst.

"I've been thinking about that," he finally answered. "My duties."

Oswin's bushy eyebrows lifted and he looked keenly at Thengel. "Have you? Well. We will talk about that soon." He waved a beefy hand in an airy fashion as if it were neither here nor there. "Sit down a moment. I want to hear what you have been up to. Your rare letters contain so little. Where did you say you had been?"

Thengel remained standing. Something about Oswin's carefree attitude did not sit right with him. He would wait for the hammer to fall while on his feet. "I didn't say. Perhaps Cenhelm told you last night?"

"He was circumspect in his report." Oswin pursed his lips in a sour fashion. "I will also point out that the Steward said he didn't know where you'd gone. I know you are past the age of needing a guardian, but I will tell you that did not please me."

Thengel tried to imagine the look of displeasure on Turgon's face after being grilled by Fengel King's marshal as to the whereabouts of the Steward's former charge.

"He didn't know."

"How is that possible? Are you not one of his captains?"

"I report to Ecthelion." Thengel retrieved a few more grapes, his back to Oswin. "I don't tell Turgon so he doesn't have to lie to you."

"You think he would?" Oswin asked sharply.

"Not directly. He can be evasive when he wants to. That's what stewards do."

Oswin harrumphed. "So where were you?"

"Lossarnach."

Thengel paced across the room, popping grapes in his mouth and stretching some of the muscles that were beginning to cramp after riding all day. He used to be able to ride longer without barely feeling a twinge after a few stretches. He didn't want to reflect too long on how that was changing over time.

"Lossarnach." Oswin pulled at his beard. "A fief south of the mountain, north of the river. East of Poros. Decent, arable land."

Thengel gave him a suspicious look. He hadn't expected his uncle to have an encyclopedic knowledge of the fiefs of Gondor. He turned on his heel to look at Oswin's map on the desk. Sure enough, the inked lines of Gondor stood out fresh from the stiff velum. Had the maps been made for Oswin here in the week or so of his stay? Why?

"What brought you to verdant Lossarnach?"

Thengel backed away from the map to face Oswin. "I wished to honor a fallen friend whose family resides there."

"And to avoid me." Oswin pursed his lips.

Thengel never pretended otherwise. "More or less," he said.

"And did you honor your friend, at least?"

Thengel cringed. "No. Well, not directly. We met with an accident. Guthere was brained by a tree."

"Cenhelm did mention that. How is your man recovering?"

"Well, I think. We left him in the best possible care."

"Where?"

"Oh, in Imloth Melui."

"What in Bema's name is that?" Oswin said roughly.

"It's the name of the valley. Sindarin…something to do with flowers, I believe."

"Hmph. Incomprehensible elf tongue. Still, it has a nice ring to it. Imol Mew," Oswin garbled. "Hmm. And you left him there alone?"

Thengel shook his head and passed to the drink stand. "He is in good hands. Want a drink?"

"No. In whose hands did you leave him?"

Thengel smiled privately while his back was turned. "A friend's. I shall have to go back there soon to collect him again."

He found himself looking forward to it, until he remembered Halmir. How long until that mess cleared up? he wondered. Maybe he would write to Guthere for news, or to Morwen herself. Come to think of it, perhaps he had been too hasty in leaving.

Come to think of it, why was any of it his problem? Did he want it to be his problem?

"What are all these, eh?"

Thengel turned to see Oswin perusing a pile of books he had left lying out on an end table before he had ridden off to Lossarnach. His uncle picked one and leafed through a few pages, going the wrong direction.

Thengel squinted over his shoulder at the pages. "Eh. Numenorean death poems. Wait, let me see that." He turned to the title page and read, "translated by Lord Randir of Lossarnach." He stared off at nothing. "Huh."

"Does that mean something to you?"

It did now. It hadn't when he received all the second-hand books from Ecthelion. He handed the volume back to Oswin.

"Who is this fellow?" Oswin asked.

"I never knew him. He's dead."

"Not as a result of this morbid subject, I hope," said Oswin dryly.

Thengel grew thoughtful. "Actually, the poems were beautiful to read." He wondered if Morwen had read her father's work. Maybe he would bring her the copy. He couldn't recall seeing one in the little library in Bar-en-Ferin.

The book in Oswin's hand shut with a clap. "Reading. Hmph. And I suppose you know our own songs too?"

Thengel sighed. He ought to have known better, he felt, than to walk right into one of Oswin's traps. "How can I memorize Rohirric songs when I can't hear them?" he groused. "You forbade me to have any transcribed."

Oswin looked aghast. "We've never written down any of our songs. I don't see why we should start for you," he said tartly. Then he added, as an afterthought, "I shall send you a bard."

"Don't bother. I haven't the time."

Oswin made a guttural sound in his throat. "No time? You can distinguish yourself in Gondor's service but you have no time to learn about your own country's culture." He gestured among the piles of books within the room. "Thengel, sometimes I'm ashamed of you."

Thengel shrugged and took a drink. He chanted, "Eala þeodnes þrym / Hu seo þrag gweat, genap under nihthelm / swa heo no wæra. / Stondeð nu on laste."**

"Not bad, although a little accented."

Thengel dropped his drink. The glass broke, accompanied by the musical tinkling of shards on stone. He turned on his heels toward the door where a woman had entered with the eerie skill of a ranger.

"Westu Thengel hal," she said with an icy grin. "Béma, you look old."

Thengel knew the woman standing before him, but his senses were confused. It was as if someone had taken a drawing of his sister and overlaid it with rough pencil sketches on wax paper of his mother. He could see her as he had always seen her in his mind, but now there was a hollowness in her cheeks and lines in her skin that tried to obscure his memory. The last time he had seen her, she was twenty-five summers and had hair the color of yellow corn. Now she was double that in age and her hair had faded somewhat over the years to the color of flax drying in a field. She had the red, wind-rough cheeks that all riders of the Mark developed over the years of traversing the plains.

"Wynflaed." That was all Thengel could manage for a long moment. He had known when he entered the house that something was different. Why hadn't Eriston told him?

"Eriston…"

Wynflaed waved her hand and his implied objection. "I gave him incentive to keep the surprise to himself."

With what violent end had she menaced the seneschal to keep him quiet? Thengel knew he had to think of a way to apologize to the man without upsetting his sensibilities. Nobody deserved to have Wynflaed happen to them.

The chair creaked as Oswin rose, looking pleased with himself. "I didn't bring half the Riddermark, as you say - but I did bring your sister. She will be staying behind when I leave. I have full confidence in her ability to handle the negotiations."

"Negotiations?" Thengel said stupidly.

Wynflaed grinned again and Thengel winced, waiting for the twist of the knife.

"Uncle Oswin has enlisted me to find you a princess, broþor min."*** She turned to Oswin. "You did give him the horn, didn't you?"

Thengel crossed his arms, the alternative being to grab a chair to ward her off like a lioness in an Umbarian traveling show. How desperate was his family to control him that they would send a _shieldmaiden_ to act as a matchmaker? And Wynflaed to boot.

"Oh yes?" he growled as the word princess reverberated through his skull. "And what will I be doing?"

"What you're good at," she answered with a voice as dry as birch bark. "Getting out of the way."

All right. Maybe he deserved that dig. But she could at least pretend to be a little pleased to see him after twenty years, Thengel groused inwardly.

And then he had another thought. "If you're ferretting out brides, then why did you come to Gondor?"

…

Full disclosure: This is my clumsy attempt at piecing together Old English. Ye gods.

*Se Aetheling! = The Prince!

Hwelc beorn? = Which man?

Ic ne wisse… = I don't know. I never saw him.

** "Alas for the splendor of the prince! How that time has passed away, dark under the cover of night, as if it had never been." Lines 64-67 from the Anglo-Saxon poem, The Wanderer. Thengel = little shit.

*** My brother.


	17. Stakes

The sun had crested the eastern ridge only hinting at its presence beneath a layer of clouds that had taken up permanent residence over the valley, along with the men from Arnach. Morwen strongly suspected - and it helped to vent her spleen - that Halmir brought the bad weather and it would only end upon his quitting the valley.

She mulled this over while she stood under the tree where Beldir's waist was just visible under the crown of pale leaves. A string of thunderstorms had made caring for the trees all but impossible since the festival. Now they had more fallen branches and the cherry trees looked depressed with their crowns stripped of blossoms and the leaves discolored in certain patches.

The tree shook in time with the growl of Beldir's handsaw. He wasn't one for long conversations, especially while working. Just when the sound of sawing would hypnotize her into a stupor, the wood cracked and another branch would fall to the ground. Although she would never admit to boredom in her beloved orchard, her nerves slowly unraveled with the repetition of stupor and startlement. Morwen found herself startled by wishing that Prince Thengel were with them, reading one of those books he liked.

Beldir swore when he jammed the handsaw in the wood and lost his grip on it. He shook his hand out.

"I still say Gundor trimmed this line," he groused.

Morwen stooped to retrieve a branch and cast it into the burn pile. Across the way, she caught the eye of Inzelbeth, one of the miller's daughters, who had the task of keeping Gundor's ladder upright and the boy along with it.

"You cannot use Gundor as a scapegoat every time something goes wrong."

Beldir gave her a look, which suggested he would certainly try.

"I'm surprised Hareth hasn't come at your for bullying him."

Beldir shrugged. "She knows the boy needs someone to whip him into shape."

"It could have just as easily been me," Morwen told him.

"You were not trimming trees last spring," Beldir reminded her.

No. Not with burying Randir and the myriad trips to Minas Tirith to settle his accounts. Those administrative duties she had felt all too glad to leave to Adrahil. The only good that came of last summer had been her growing ease with riding over long distances. Ease she probably hadn't retained over the winter.

A thought occurred to her. "Didn't Hardang send you one or two of his gardeners while I was away?"

Beldir looked down at her. "I forgot about them. They were not here long."

Morwen nodded and let the implication hang in the air between them. It didn't matter though who was responsible. Beldir would keep the trees healthy. She trusted him.

Beldir stopped sawing to take a drink of water from a jar he'd rigged to the ladder. "Look out."

Morwen turned in the direction of the gate. Halmir glided between a line of trees, so much like the wolf in old tales, with a bounce and flourish of some scroll he held. Morwen sighed and wished finding her proved more difficult for people. Routine made her an easy target for determined irritants.

"Up already?" she asked when he was within hearing range. Halmir didn't know what a sunrise looked like, or the taste of breakfast. Somehow her cousins didn't believe in mornings. Morwen thought she had left him back at the house, drooling on a pillow. The day couldn't be passing as quickly as that.

"Yes, moon of my delight. Old Gildis turned me out to change the bed clothes."

Morwen wondered if Gildis would take her suggestion to line the sheets with nettles. The housekeeper pretended to be shocked and dismissive, but Morwen could see the temptation softening the rigid lines of Gildis's mouth. If only she wasn't so upright all the time. Halmir had no qualms about tricks and threats and Morwen doubted they would be able to hold out much longer if they didn't stoop to his level.

"No matter, though," he continued. "I wanted to show you something that has just come from town." He grinned generously and his good mood made the fine hair on Morwen's arms prickle.

"A summons to return to Arnach?" she asked brightly. One could dare to hope.

Halmir laughed. "Oh no, you mistake me. I meant Minas Tirith." He laughed again. "I won't be leaving any time soon. On the contrary, what I hold in my hand will only cement my stay. Besides, Hundor informed me that the trees were not entirely healthy," he said with a grave expression. "How do things progress in the orchard, Beldir?"

Beldir grunted.

Morwen opened her mouth to challenge Halmir when she remembered that she had in fact supplied that information to Hundor during the feast. Odd, she hadn't thought Hundor was sober enough to recall it.

"The trees are well enough. Don't trouble yourself."

"Trouble myself? Morwen, as regent—"

"All right, yes," Morwen snapped. She grasped a ladder rung and called up to Beldir, "You may as well tell him what you told me."

Beldir climbed down. "Lot of dead bark on these three here. It's nothing we can't treat," he answered. "Fungus formed when we trimmed maybe over the last couple years, with this tree being the worst off."

"That's bad, is it?" Halmir asked.

"The bark keeps back the rot. Ignoring the bark, whoever trimmed here spread it around to some of the others. That's what I think happened, anyway. "

"That sounds very bad," said Halmir. "Will it kill them outright?"

"This season, no," Beldir told him. "But over time all these discolored folds you see here will weaken the trunk and branches if left alone. Rots from within. All it would take is a proper wind to topple the tree. And the fruit will suffer before that."

"Do what you must," said Halmir as he tucked the scroll into the crook of his elbow.

"We are," Morwen growled.

Beldir stared at Halmir before ignoring him and turning to Morwen. "What are your instructions, my lady?"

Morwen blinked stupidly at Beldir. They had already discussed their course of action. Did he forget? It wasn't until he winked at her that she realized that Beldir was deliberately signaling to Halmir where the true authority lay.

"Trim the branches with cankers," she told him. "Do you think a dressing will be necessary? We never decided."

Beldir shrugged. "I can make one up but the wounds usually close on their own. I would rather take care with the tools and leave the tree to the clean air."

"That's settled." Halmir clapped his hands together. "Now, Morwen I want a moment of your time. Eh, but I need a flat surface somewhere. Dais?"

He hooked her arm with his free one and guided her down the path toward the permanent structure in the center of the cherry trees.

"I meant to show you this at home…"

"In Arnach?" she gasped.

"No," he said with exasperation. "Home. The house. Here."

She bit her tongue. This wasn't his home and she didn't like how familiar he felt with Bar-en-Ferin.

"I wanted to show you in the study. That is the proper place," he muttered, sounding almost like her father, who had a strong ceremonial side, "but you stubbornly won't allow me to use it."

"I told you, Prince Thengel will return…"

"Yes, you've been saying that," he grumbled. "Oh well. You will get a better idea for the thing out of doors, perhaps."

They reached the dais, which had been stripped of its table and chairs until next year. Rather than climbing the steps, Halmir spread the scroll out over the driest patch of floor, careful to flick away a few leaves that had been blown there by the storms. He had to take out a penknife and a few stones he must have picked up along the way to keep the corners from curling in on themselves. When he finished, Morwen stood beside him and leaned over the parchment.

"You're learning how to draw?"

"Not I."

Halmir smoothed his hands over the patchwork of rectangles and squares and circles, beaming like a new father. The look of satisfaction drove away the devious angles that always haunted his lips and eyes. She almost thought happiness made him look kind.

"What is it, then?"

"Plans."

Her heart guttered. "What plans?"

"For the improvements I have in mind." His eyes grew sharp again. "Honestly, Morwen, how many times do I have to remind you," he drawled. "Come. I think you'll like them. A friend drew them up for me in Minas Tirith."

Stunned that Halmir had concrete ideas for the place, Morwen leaned against the dais for support.

"Tell me what you see."

Morwen squinted at the chart more carefully, trying to make sense of it. At first the raw outlines boggled her eyes, but she gave up trying to pick out a pattern. Once her eyes relaxed, suddenly she recognized the layout of her orchard, the house, and the outbuildings. A detailed blueprint of Bar-en-Ferin. It felt odd to see her home reduced to flat planes. And where had Halmir gotten all this information? Only, she spotted two terrible errors. She pointed them out.

"That's the top of the orchard," she said. "Not a building."

He smiled as if she had just told a joke. "Oh, I plan to knock that down. These hills are choked with apple trees," he said with a sweep of his hand over the chart.

Morwen's hands clenched into fists at her side and she drove her nails into her palms to keep calm. "Those apples are the oldest part of the orchard and our chief crop. We can't afford to knock them down. It's impossible and wasteful. Do you know we are the only suppliers for the House of Healing in Minas Tirith?"

He waved away her objections. "There are much closer orchards on the Pelennor, if it's the House of Healing you're worried about. Anyway, local produce is much more economical."

"You couldn't pay me to eat something grown on the Pelennor," she hissed. "And you do know that we grow a hybrid of apples you can't find anywhere else? My mother—"

"There's no need to be snobbish, Morwen. What are a few trees compared to hot and cold baths?"

"Baths?" she asked through gritted teeth.

"Baths." He pointed to the other wrong rectangle on the chart. "The birch grove between the house and the garden will have to go, as well.

"Halmir, this property is named after that grove."

Morwen felt like he had cut her with that same movement of his hand. Tear down beautiful, ancient beeches and healthy, profitable fruit trees for what? The senseless thought caused a pain in her stomach.

"To attract wealthy and influential visitors from Minas Tirith." He flipped to another chart beneath the first, a mechanical drawing that really confused her eyes. "See, underground fires warm vats of water and push steam through a series of pipes in one part of the bathhouse. Bathers can then enjoy the view of the trees while they relax." He drew invisible circles over the rectangle with his finger. "We could put Imloth Melui down in the lists for healthy attractions for convalescents and anyone trying to escape the heat of the city in summer. Baths, steam rooms, beautiful walks, flowers, fruit, fishing on the Erui. In the autumn we can attract hunters. Wouldn't Randir be proud of that?" He went on before she could object. "And here is the layout for a lodge and here for servants quarters."

"Only Hareth and Gildis and Beldir live here. The rest go home to their families."

"Of course. I mean more quarters. You know this plantation could produce twice as much if we only had the workers for it. Minas Tirith is teeming with men and women looking for better work. More hands mean you won't have to keep getting your own covered in dirt." He looked askance at her grubby dress. Not the garb he envisioned for the mistress of Bar-en-Ferin, Morwen thought.

"I like my hands covered in dirt." She moved away from him, turning to face the trees. "Halmir, everyone who works here lives in the valley. You can't just bring in a host of city folk without upsetting the balance. We have as many fruit trees as the estate can support and now you're talking of eliminating some of those." She leaned back on the table and looked at him closely. "Have you given Imloth Melui any thought as a living organism? A community? It's like you're in a strange fever dream."

Halmir flushed. "I'm not the one dreaming. Aren't you tired of living by the skin of your teeth?"

"I'm not ashamed of the way I live. You may not like it, but I do."

"Your father was the son of princes, Morwen, yet if the farm failed, how long would you survive?" He raked his fingers through his curls in frustration. "I thought you would want something tangible to show for your hard work. Something you could put in a treasury, not just a jar under your bed."

"Are we really talking about me or is this about you? I am content."

His eyes burned as he looked at her. "Then you are more foolish than I believed."

"Every farm has a bad season, Halmir. We lay by what we can so when bad years come we have something to survive on. That means no extravagant living and finding satisfaction in what we already have." She pointed to the phantom rectangle on the blueprint. "This scheme is extravagant. Even if I agreed to it, which I don't, neither of us has the funds."

He gave her a superior look. "I've already thought of that."

"No." She reached for the chart unceremoniously threw the plans onto the ground. It landed in a puddle. The paper turned the color of burnt butter as it soaked in the water.

Halmir rose to his feet in alarm, then shrugged. "No matter. I had copies made."

"Not a single tree will fall to make this happen. I won't allow it," she promised.

Halmir started to reply, but a clamor from the bottom of the slope stopped him. Raised voices floated up, promising a brawl. Morwen descended the slope at a run toward the gate with her cousin in tow.

When they reached the road and were close enough to discern the lawn surrounding the house, Morwen stopped short. Several tents were now smoldering piles of canvas. Cooking pots and commodes, and smoking packs containing whatever gear had been salvaged from the tents where now lying scattered around as if a family of bears had trashed the place.

A group of men stood over the ruins, arguing and shoving one another. She approached them without caution, feet fueled by her anger toward Halmir.

"What happened here?" she demanded.

"These fools lit a cooking fire between our tents and sent them up in blazes," a tall, dark man groused. Morwen recognized the soldier as one of the men who had sought out Prince Thengel during the feast. "Bloody farmhands don't know a thing about keeping camp—"

One of the bloody farmhands took exception to the epithet and swung an arm out to clobber the dark soldier. Morwen felt herself nudged out of the way and Adan appeared. He caught the arm mid-strike and didn't let go.

"That's enough, Enthor," Adan barked. "Salaben. Ornion. Cullastor. All of you clear out. You'll need to find someone to tent with. And remember, fires only in designated areas. Don't let me catch you doing anything so foolish again." He gave a black look to the men who started the fire.

When the men dispersed, Adan bowed his head to Morwen. "Forgive me, my lady. I will keep better order."

Halmir's eyes hooded suspiciously as he stared down his nose at the soldier. "I did not name you captain, Adan."

"No, my lord. You did not," Adan answered crisply. "But your appointed captain, Tullus, is lying drunk in his tent and none-the-wiser. I recall he was recruited in a pigsty behind a tavern."

Morwen threw her hands up. "A tavern. Wonderful."

Halmir sneered, but pretended to ignore her. "You are making a little too free, Adan. Watch yourself."

Adan gave him an ironic bow and stalked off.

The anger that rose in Morwen made her feel oddly cold and detached. She looked at the scorched earth and felt she didn't know the lawn as her own.

"Halmir, with me." Her voice sounded steady and sharp as ice. Something in it made Halmir obey without a word. They walked down the gravel drive toward the house. She turned and stopped him while they were out of earshot.

"I want you to look at this." She spread her arms wide over the once green forest between her house and the orchard. "What do you see?"

The men stirred within their tents. Despite the accident, some were starting fires to heat water in areas with a little more room between the tents. She imagined her lawn pockmarked with scorched grass and she ground her teeth together.

"Halmir, you have been here for a week. Who is going to keep that camp in good order?"

Halmir sniffed. "My men are self-sufficient."

"Yes, I can see that," she said acidly. "Sufficient at brawling, drinking, and burning."

"Remember, Morwen, they're only here as long as you want them. You could send them all away with a word. I've unfolded all my plans to you. Once you consent to marry me, these men will march home within the hour."

Morwen folded her arms against herself like a shield. "I can't believe you don't see how twisted that is."

Halmir shrugged. "A means to an end."

"Meaning this retreat of yours?" Morwen bristled. "Even if I agreed - and I don't - we can't afford to feed all these men for much longer, let alone build. Have you thought this through at all beyond blueprints?"

Halmir unhooked a pouch, heavily laden, from his belt and spilled out a sampling of its contents into his hand. Gold coins winked dully beneath the clouds.

Morwen's hand flew to cover his, hiding the gold from any onlookers. Her eyes scanned the dooryard to make sure no one else had seen the coins. There lay enough money to pay for Bar-en-Ferin on the spot between what Halmir held in his palm and the pouch. And he casually kept it on his belt? Her stomach roiled.

"Where on earth did you get all of this?" she hissed. She imagined an empty storehouse in Arnach where all of Hardang's treasures must have gone missing, liquidated to supply Halmir's schemes. How quickly had he acted after his brother's death?

"Don't look so alarmed. I've enlisted investors," Halmir said glibly. He pulled his hand away from hers and emptied the coins back into the pouch.

"Investors?" she parroted.

"Yes, there happens to be a group of my friends who like my scheme for Bar-en-Ferin and have therefore agreed to help finance it."

Morwen felt her throat closing up. "You did not take their money."

He looked sorry for her stupidity. "Of course I did. Why shouldn't I? It's a brilliant scheme. I'll be able to repay them with interest within a few years of opening. Do you know what folk in Minas Tirith would be willing to pay for a quiet refuge in Lossarnach's fabled valley during the heat of summer?"

"During the height of harvest and markets?" Morwen pinched the bridge of her nose. "No, and I don't care. You hadn't even spoken to me yet when you accepted this money."

He gave her a cold look. "Truly, it never crossed my mind that you would be so obstinate."

Morwen walked away from Halmir on unsteady legs. She sat down on the doorstep slowly and tried to breath. _Stars and Valar and Sea kings_. These friends of Halmir's could not connect the loans of money to her, surely. That is, they couldn't possibly see Morwen as equally responsible to repay. Could they?

"What guarantee did you give them?" she asked.

"My name, of course."

"And mine?"

Halmir stared down his nose at her as if realizing he'd lost some ground. "No. How could I until we're married?"

Morwen sighed in relief. That, she promised, would never happen. Certainly not now that marrying Halmir meant marrying his debt. Some children grew up with stories of big, bad wolves and goblins. Her parents told one horror story, of the ruin debt placed on a farm. Lean years would come, they'd said, so live sensibly during years of plenty and make the yields last. Staying out of debt would always prove easier than getting out of it.

She hadn't liked Halmir's scheme for sentimental reasons, but now she had to take a moral stand on it. The scheme would ruin the plantation and likely sink Halmir - and he wanted to take her down with him. She recognized his proposals for what they were, merely the guarantee he sought to make the scheme happen and to reassure his friends. Morwen felt certain of that. After all, he hadn't pretended to be in love with her.

"And if you can't repay them, then what?" she asked.

"That is for me to worry about," he answered stiffly. "And if all goes well, it will be a moot point."

"I recommend you ride back to Minas Tirith right now and return the money to your friends before you lose their good will," she said tiredly. "Turning the orchard into a…a haven can't succeed. It's a working farm and everyone in the valley depends on it in one way or another. Altering the plantation would be harmful to all the families here. You also know very well that Arnach receives a generous portion from our yields. Can't that satisfy you?"

"Morwen, sweet, I am trying to be patient with you," he said, kneeling down in front of her. For once the skin around his eyes looked taut, as though he really had lost his patience. "But you don't seem to understand your place as tenant. I will be kind and not lord it over you," he continued, closing the space between them. He squeezed her shoulders. "But very soon I will be giving the orders here and you will be my guest."

His hands slid down around her arms. They held her loosely by the wrists, but that only seemed to drive home that he was holding her this way by choice. There was a promise of what he could do, what he could become if she pushed him. The cold, sick feeling of fear turned her stomach.

"When that day comes," he said, "do you want to be in my favor or out of it?"

...

A/N: On that happy family note, may none of you have to encounter relatives like Halmir on Thanksgiving. ;) Thanks for reading!


	18. Beldir Offers Advice

"Then he asked if I wanted to be in his favor when he decides to take full possession of Bar-en-Ferin."

Beldir fairly quivered with anger after Morwen related back her conversation with Halmir. He boiled over where he stood, insensible of the string of onions hanging from a rafter knocking him on the head. She had to take the shaking mugs of an herbal brew he liked out of his hands before he spilled their contents all over the table. She set his beside a tin dinner plate that still held a burnt rind of toast, which had been the overseer's dinner.

"Sit down, please," she urged. "I can't talk to you when you're looming."

Beldir folded into the only other seat in the cramped kitchen. Morwen leaned forward over Beldir's rough table top, resting her elbows on the edge. She didn't often visit the shed where he lived on the edge of the property. Here, where the valley walls began to slope in earnest, they were free from Halmir, his brother, his gang, and all of her own household who were constantly demanding her attention.

"How did he get his hands on that money?"

Morwen shook her head. "I don't know how he convinced his friends to lend it, but they have."

Through their generosity she felt thoroughly cornered. The situation had grown from preposterous to delicate. Now she had the duty of talking Halmir down from his scheme and convincing him to face his friends in defeat. For a fleeting instant, Morwen wished she could trade places with Ioneth who had nothing more to worry about than weeding the kitchen garden and flirting with the woodcutters.

"Perhaps after he sleeps on what I've said he will think better of keeping the money," she said without any real hope. "I'll think of something."

Beldir harrumphed. "You cannot ward off Halmir alone, Morwen. You're outnumbered."

"Then what should I do? We cannot go through with his scheme. I told you what he meant to do with the fruit trees."

Beldir looked contemptuously in the direction of the house through the open shutters while he thought. She watched him gulp down the hot drink and then attended to her own. It tasted dull in her mouth, oversteeped the way Beldir liked it.

"Many of those apples are the original trees to the orchard," he said. "My grandfather tended them. I don't know what I'd do with myself if they were chopped up to make room for a building."

Beldir fell back into thought, leaving Morwen to her own. Silence felt comfortable between them and Morwen had taken Beldir's presence for granted, she realized. He was as much a fixture in the valley as the trees themselves. Long before her birth, he served her parents as overseer of Bar-en-Ferin. Unlike either of her own parents, Beldir was born and raised in Imloth Melui. They shared that in common. Morwen didn't know any other home and neither did he.

They worked well together. What she lacked in knowledge, she made up for in willingness, which he respected. And so the transition of master from father to daughter upon Randir's death had been a smooth one up until this point, mainly because of Beldir's support. The families in the neighborhood perhaps didn't like him, least of all the children whom he had no scruples against cuffing when they were careless or lazy in the orchard. But he treated everyone fairly and so he had their respect, and in turn, respected their young mistress. The sentiment hadn't reached Arnach, she thought bitterly.

"You need to get your cousin involved," Beldir said finally. "Go to Prince Adrahil and see what he will do."

Morwen stared at Beldir. "Go to Minas Tirith? I can't," she said. "I could write…"

"A letter won't flap Halmir. Think, Morwen. If Prince Adrahil were to come and assert his influence, Halmir might decide to forget the whole thing."

"But Aranel is ill," Morwen reminded him gloomily. "Adrahil won't leave her to sort things out in Lossarnach."

"Still. Go to Minas Tirith."

Morwen grimaced.

"What choice do you have?" Beldir asked. "He can help you find out what your rights might be or, at the very least, he may put enough pressure on Halmir to leave by some other means. He might help you speak to the Steward. Don't forget your connection to the Princes of Dol Amroth."

"I haven't forgotten," Morwen sighed, rubbing her temples. "The thought crossed my mind more than once since the feast."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"I had guests to wait on."

"Prince Thengel left over a week ago," Beldir pointed out with ill humor.

The blood stirred in Morwen and she felt the heat of it in her face. "I know."

"Then what?"

Beldir waited while Morwen tried to put in to words exactly where her reluctance stemmed.

"Well." Morwen ran her thumb over the lip of the table to keep from looking up.

"Yes?"

"I had hoped to reason with Halmir myself without leaning on my other cousins," she admitted, "it makes me look weak."

"Weakness has nothing to do with it," Beldir said impatiently. "You can't reason with a fool."

"So I am learning."

Beldir leaned back in his chair, regarding her. "There's no shame in asking for help. It seems to me you can either keep your pride intact or the plantation, not both. "

Morwen glowered at her hands. "I shouldn't have to," she grumbled. "He should respect me enough to listen to my views without another man forcing him. Am I supposed to run to Adrahil every time something goes wrong here?"

"This is a peculiar situation where Lord Halmir feels he has some rights as well," Beldir observed, surprising Morwen and irritating her.

"Rights!"

"And there's his wanting to marry you, which makes some men pretty determined and not a little unreasonable."

Morwen struggled to swallow down several choice words for her overseer. She felt betrayed. How could Beldir try to see things from Halmir's point of view when her cousin had stepped so far beyond the edge of reason?

"That's no excuse for bad behavior," she huffed.

"I'm not excusing his behavior, my lady," Beldir replied. "Halmir doesn't see himself as a villain, is all, and that's the obstacle."

"And I am not accustomed to my wishes being ignored, which will be his obstacle. At least, it would be if the world worked the way it should."

Beldir laughed and Morwen found herself blushing again, as much in indignation as in embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, Morwen." He shrugged. "You had the unusual fortune as a child to have indulgent parents and nobody in the neighborhood to gainsay you. If the world worked the way it's supposed to, well, I can't imagine such a place."

"I'm not spoiled," she insisted.

Beldir grinned into his mug. "Nobody said that you were."

"Right."

Morwen rose to refill her cup from the kettle. With her back to Beldir, she felt she could think over what he had said. She watched the dregs swirl before disappearing into the black bottom of the brew. Through the one window beside the stove she could see the clouds were still spitting rain over the valley, staining the beeches gray in the dying light. Down the slope from the cottage, between the interlacing branches and new leaves she could distinguish snatches of the mossy roof of her home and a light or two twinkling in the windows.

It struck her with some force that she dreaded leaving this cramped, dusty little cottage for her own hall. When had she ever felt that way before now? With each of her parents' deaths the place had diminished somewhat in homeliness, but she never felt like it wasn't still her home. Now she felt that familiarity and sureness slipping through her fingers. Something would have to be done. Beldir spoke truly when he said she could keep her pride intact or keep Bar-en-Ferin. Not both.

He must have read the decision from the way she held her head up, as he asked, "When do we leave?"

She turned around. "We?"

"You're not going alone. I'm coming with you."

Morwen put her cup down and folded her arms. "Someone has to keep one eye on the orchard and another on Halmir." She shook her head, imagining her cousin left to his own devices. "Who will do that? Gundor?"

"Listen, the journey can be done in two days. Take another one or two for consulting with Prince Adrahil. What could Halmir do in that time?"

"I don't know, but that's what I'm worried about."

Beldir rose to his feet. "Morwen, if he is determined, there's precious little even I can do to stop him with all his thugs around. So I ask again, when do we leave?"

…

Morwen left Beldir's cottage feeling both relieved and unsettled. They had a plan. She would go to Adrahil and his support would set things to rights. So why did she still feel so uneasy?

On the one hand, Adrahil might only confirm that she had no foothold to rely on. She had hope of some recourse until that time. And yet, until she stood on her cousin's doorstep her nerves would buzz with the dread that something might happen to keep them from ever reaching Minas Tirith. The dread accompanied her on the walk through the beech grove and through the scattered tents where men grumbled and snored together, until she reached the small halo of yard they left to the household's use.

She found Ioneth in the kitchen garden, furiously pulling weeds and hissing under her breath at the drizzle. As far as Morwen could tell, the girl didn't succeed well with the mud.

Ioneth jumped nervously when she heard Morwen's footsteps crunching over the gravel.

"Oh, it's only you, Lady Morwen," the girl sighed. "I thought you might be one of those soldiers."

"I'm glad you aren't letting the men get the better of you, but perhaps you should save gardening for dryer weather?"

Ioneth wiped her nose on the back of her muddy hand. "Well, I won't go in the kitchen for any money while _he's_ in there. Hareth's making a fool of herself, I say."

"He?"

Ioneth gave Morwen a look of long suffering. "The foreign one, of course."

"Guthere?"

"She only likes him because he's not one of the rangers from Ithilien, like the others."

It took Morwen a moment to recall Hareth's reaction to Adan the week before and the irrational blame the cook placed on them for removing her family from the danger of the orcs overrunning the forest. The truth was, Adan and Guthere were equally lacking in guilt.

"Why don't you go home, Ioneth? Gundor has nearly finished looking after the animals. He'll walk you home."

"You don't have to ask me twice," Ioneth muttered. She wiped her hands on her dress and left her pile of weeds lying where they fell. "Goodnight, my lady."

"Goodnight, Ioneth."

When the girl disappeared into the barn undisturbed, Morwen decided to come in through the kitchen rather than the hall, even if Hareth didn't like it. She could hear sounds of conversation muffled by the door. It abruptly ceased when the door's hinges creaked, betraying her entrance. She stood on the threshold, bathing in the light and warmth of the kitchen.

Both Hareth and Guthere were apple-cheeked and glistening in the humidity from the pots and pans simmering on the stove and the hearth. The bench had been pushed all the way under the broad table and a large gray pat of what might have been bread dough or gravel sat passively in a field of flour.

Flour covered them too, their sleeves rolled up revealing dusty arms. From the looks of it, Guthere might have been showing Hareth how to knead the doubtful looking lump of dough.

"Oh, Lady Morwen," Hareth clucked. She fiddled with her apron. "I thought you were Ioneth for a moment."

"Wet night, Lady Morwen," said Guthere. "Come in out of the drizzle."

Morwen did so, closing the door behind her. Now the savory aroma of vegetables and herbs enveloped her and hunger surpassed dread for her stomach's attention. She smiled softly at the pair before her.

"It's good to see you up and about more, Guthere."

Guthere blushed. "Thank you. I try to keep out from under foot, but…"

"He says conversation keeps his mind off the pain in his head," Hareth added.

"And the flour?" Morwen asked.

"I can't abide idle people in my kitchen," Hareth said, flushing nearly purple. "I put him to work."

"Nanneth would approve, I'm sure."

Hareth turned to stir one of the pots, hiding her embarrassment behind a broad back. "He's teaching me recipes from, eh…"

"The Riddermark," Guthere supplied.

"Yes, the Riddermark." She gave the stew a vicious stir. "That's how it's properly called, you know."

"So I've heard."

"There'll be stew tonight for supper and once he shows me how to work the dough…" Hareth banged the spoon against the pot, knocking off vegetables and broth, and laid it to rest on the table. "Well, it's just that he understands food."

"It's a gift," Guthere chuckled.

Hareth and Guthere stared at one another in silence. Morwen inched toward the interior door that led to the hall. "I've sent Ioneth home early, so I'll just go find Gildis to tell her."

Morwen left them, feeling thoughtful. Gildis was just outside the door in the hall. A fire burned in the grate, hissing with the occasional raindrop. The table had been laid. Gildis busied herself at the linen chest, which stood open while she folded the tablecloths. The older woman looked up, having heard the door. She gave Morwen an amused smile.

"So you've noticed our little romance?"

Morwen drew near to Gildis and murmured, "When did it happen?"

"Oh, who really knows?" Gildis shook her head, and said with gravity, "these things creep up on one so."

"I've never seen Hareth like this."

Gildis rolled her eyes. "No one has, I'm sure."

"She's letting him cook. You don't think there's any harm in it, do you?

"Oh, it's harmless enough," she said as Morwen helped her with the long cloth, "but perhaps your guest should leave sooner rather than later before things grow too serious. His pain seems to have magically subsided."

"Too serious?" Morwen glanced over her shoulder toward the kitchen. "You mean they might want to marry?"

"How can they? He will have to return to serving Prince Thengel and that means he will go back to Rohan."

"Poor Hareth," Morwen sighed.

"Nonsense. Hareth can take care of herself."

Gildis took the folded cloth from Morwen and laid it in the chest. "Thank you. Ioneth should have put the cloths away, but she's making herself scarce these days."

"I sent Ioneth home."

"Just as well. She's been impossible since the feast," Gildis sniffed. "And where have you been?"

"Talking to Beldir about Halmir."

Gildis studied Morwen's face. "And?"

"I'm going to Minas Tirith. Beldir and I will go. Adrahil may have some advice for us."

"I take it Beldir suggested the journey?" When Morwen nodded, Gildis asked, "When will you leave?"

"The day after tomorrow. Beldir wants to finish the last row of trees, leave the workers with instructions for their care, and then we will go."

Gildis nodded. "A sensible plan."

"Do you really think it's a good idea, Gildis? It'll leave you and Hareth alone."

"What did Beldir say?"

"He doesn't think Halmir will have time to do much damage in only a few days. But if you feel you need us here, then we'll stay."

Gildis's eyes sparked. "Lady Morwen, are you suggesting I can't manage the household without you?"

Morwen bit her lip, suddenly feeling five years old again.

"This house has been in my care since before your mother became a bride and you were nothing but an inkling. Have I ever been unreliable in all that time?"

"No."

"Have you ever known me to be cowed by anyone?"

Morwen shook her head.

"Do you think I would let them raze the house, orchard, and all?"

"No, Gildis."

"Good. Now, when will you tell Lord Halmir that you're going?"

"Not until we leave."

"That is probably for the best," Gildis said dryly. "Do you think Prince Adrahil would come to Bar-en-Ferin?"

"Honestly, no."

"I wish he would. Lord Halmir could use some bullying for all that he's given you."

Before Gildis finished her sentence, Hundor materialized from the shadows of the corridor. Morwen stepped away from Gildis as if they were guilty conspirators and both of the women watched him with their breaths held. He stretched his arms behind his back as if he had just woken from a nap.

"Is supper up yet?"

"It will be soon, my lord," Gildis told him.

He picked a thread off his tunic and yawned. "Guess I'll go for a walk then."

They watched him until he disappeared through the hall doors.

"I keep forgetting he's here," Morwen muttered. "His brother's such a distraction.

Gildis nodded.

"Do you think he heard us?"

Gildis pursed her lips, and then said, "Let us hope he didn't. He's rotten with mischief, that one."

Morwen agreed. Dread quickly replaced hunger. Until she left the woods of Imloth Melui behind her, she wouldn't be free of it.

…

When the morning of their journey arrived, even the weather seemed relieved. The clouds dispersed and the young, spring sun generously spilled its beams over the valley wall. Leaves that were bent under the weight of raindrops seemed to curl upward to sip the light.

Morwen woke early to meet Beldir in the stables, but he had not materialized. Knowing him as she did, she imagined he had taken one last round of the orchard and had found something to distract him. So she busied herself saddling the horses.

Strawberry huffed in Morwen's ear, tickling the side of her face and leaving her a mess. She gently pushed his muzzle away and wiped the snot from her ear with her sleeve. For a handsome chestnut, he lacked manners, she thought. Across the aisle, old Briar, a small draft horse from the north with a dun coat, watched the proceedings with sleepy interest. The other horses belonging to Guthere and Halmir and Hundor had been let out into the paddock.

She had never thought of either Strawberry or Briar as short or overly plump. They were exercised regularly and muscular enough to pull the wagon of goods to Arnach and Minas Tirith. But compared to Guthere's horse, where she thought of them as deep chested, she saw stockiness.

Strawberry stamped a foot and whickered. He regarded her thoughtfully and his expression seemed to say that she wasn't the usual one bothering him into a saddle and could she quit daydreaming?

"Peace," she murmured. "I'm almost finished."

Morwen secured the throatlatch and stepped away. The tack looked right, but she felt a second opinion might not hurt. In fact, Beldir usually saddled the horses but he still hadn't arrived. She left the stall to go in search of him when her skirt snagged on a nail that had worked its way out of the post.

As she bent to unhitch her hem she heard a boot scuffing the floor. Looking up, she had time to see Hundor try to duck behind the stable door. It was too late and he knew he had been seen. He leaned back into the doorway and gave her a crooked grin that she did not like. As she rose, he stepped fully into the aisle.

"You're still an insufferable lurker, aren't you?" she said.

Hundor shrugged. "And you're a sneak. Where are you off to?"

"I didn't sneak," Morwen said. "Everyone has full knowledge of my journey."

"Not Halmir."

Morwen looked down her nose at him. "I don't owe Halmir an explanation of my actions. Besides, I have an inkling you already told him."

Hundor laughed. "It wasn't hard to find out. I just wanted to know if you'd admit it."

"Don't you have someone else to spy on?" she groused.

"Alas, no." He leaned against an empty stall and stirred the dirt floor with his boot. "It won't be much fun without you and Halmir butting heads. Why are you going to Minas Tirith at all?"

"I'm visiting Adrahil," she said.

Hundor's lip curled into a sneer. "The noble Adrahil. Prince of stuffed shirts."

"Don't be disrespectful. It smacks of jealousy."

Hundor shrugged. "I'm not the only one who says things like that. Everyone knows that their house lords it over everyone else, even the Steward's cowed by them. Hardang used to say so."

"Hardang would never speak of the princes of Dol Amroth like that."

"Not in so many words."

Morwen knew he enjoyed irritate her and that she made herself an easy target. He had the talent for it. She took several deep breaths to calm herself, a mistake in the dry, dirty barn. The dust tickled her throat and she coughed violently into her sleeve.

"It sounds to me," she said when the coughing fit ceased, "that Hardang's description fits Halmir better. Has he shared his plans with you?"

"Most of them."

"Then you know what danger he's in. Can't you try to talk him out of it?"

Hundor laughed bitterly. "Halmir does whatever he wants. You and I know he won't retrench. He'll sink all his money rather than admit defeat."

"Then what about you?"

"What about me?" he asked with a jaundiced expression.

"Surely you must be eager to return home to your friends and…whatever it is you do in Arnach. Do you want to be mixed up in this too?"

"Arnach's dull." He grinned. "All the interesting things are happening here."

Not for much longer, Morwen hoped. But where was Beldir? She excused herself and left Hundor alone in the stable. The Arnach men loitering in the yard made room for her to cross to the house, which always made her feel strange. Not that she wanted to elbow her way through them, but the way they treated her with such otherness unnerved her.

Morwen stopped when the sound of a disturbance reached her ears. A figure pushed his way to the front where Morwen stood and finally the others gave way for him.

"Gundor?"

"Sorry, Lady Morwen," he panted, breathless. "Beldir's hurt."

Morwen blinked stupidly while the meaning of Gundor's message made its sleepy way to her brain.

"Hurt? How?"

Gundor screwed up his face in a look of disgust. "He fell off his roof."

Again, the meaning did not immediately register in Morwen's mind.

"His roof? What was he doing up there?"

The men nearest them leaned toward them in interest, distracting Gundor who watched them press in. Morwen gripped his arm.

"Tell me."

"He said he heard some creature burrowing in the thatch during the night and he wanted to have a look." Gundor shuddered. "I heard him hollering on my way to the orchard and I hadn't even done anything yet! So I followed his voice to the cottage and there he was in a heap under some thatch and his ladder."

"Where is he now?"

"On the ground."

"Still?"

"It's his leg, he said. Beldir can't walk at all. He said not to move him in case I break his neck or worse."

What could be worse? she wondered. "Take me to him."

…

Morwen's heart sank as soon as she saw Beldir. His limbs splayed out on the ground and his face had turned a gray-green color that did not bode well. She could see he was sweating and making an effort to hide the pain. Morwen knelt beside him. Gundor at least had the forethought to clear away the ladder and the thatch.

"Morwen."

"What's the damage?" she asked gently.

"There's a hole all right."

"In your leg?" she gasped.

He looked at her like she was daft. "No, in the roof."

Morwen bit the inside of her cheek as irritation and relief vied for dominance. The farm could do without seeing more holes in bodies. Holes in roofs were the least of her worries. She became aware of more people gathering about the shed. Adan and the limping Beleg, Thengel's friend, were among them.

"Beldir," she said carefully, "I'm asking about you, not the roof."

Beldir grimaced. "Oh."

"Do you think it's broken?"

"Don't know," he said through gritted teeth. "Call me a coward, but I can't bring myself to look."

"Let me see." No obvious signs of breakage appeared while his leg was covered, no exposed bone. Yet, Morwen's stomach curdled in anticipation as she rolled up Beldir's pants leg. Sure enough, a red lump formed under the skin on his calf where free bone was pressing upward. Morwen gagged, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Broken?"

Morwen nodded, unwilling to open her mouth in case she was sick.

"It'll need setting." Adan had materialized at Morwen's side, surveying Beldir's leg.

"Do you know how?" she asked. "We could get Nanneth, but that will take time."

"It's common knowledge in our line of work," he said. "Happens all the time."

"That one's not to help." Beldir pointed to Gundor.

"No fear!" Gundor grunted. He looked as green as Morwen.

"We'll shift him, my lady. Beleg and I can do it. Then we'll move him inside."

"Thank you. Gundor, get Nanneth. She'll have something for the pain."

Gundor obeyed, taking off at a run that would wind him before he left the bounds of the property. He never did learn how to pace himself and she understood Beldir's frustration with the boy.

Morwen realized that Adan had been talking to her and that her mind had wandered. She had to ask him to repeat himself.

"We need a splint," he said. "One of the lads could fetch something from camp, but…." Adan's expression seemed to suggest he thought she might like an excuse to be elsewhere when they set the bone.

Morwen felt all too aware of her own weak stomach to be offended. She admired Nanneth's iron will in the face of bodily disruption, but that gift hadn't bestowed itself on Morwen.

"Tell me what you need. I'll see what can be found in Beldir's cottage."

Beleg described the materials they would need to set the bone and wrap it. Morwen entered the cottage, propping the door open behind her for when they would carry Beldir inside. She looked for splint material and any old cloth that could be wound around his leg. The man lived sparsely but she did find an old sheet stored in a crate up in the rafters that would work. It sent up a cloud of dust when she shook it open that made her cough and sneeze. Tearing it into strips proved harder as all Beldir's knives were dull and in places the old fabric simply crumbled. She handed the usable strips to Beleg out the window.

"We're going to set it now, my lady," he warned.

Morwen busied herself inside, turning down the blanket on Beldir's small cot, plumping the pillow, and moving his chair, a pair of old boots, and a crate of firewood that might be in the men's way.

She heard the men talking to one another and kept an eye on the window. Adan and Beleg were visible when standing, but she couldn't see Beldir. When Adan and Beleg both stooped, she turned away from the window, though her imagination made up for what she couldn't see. She heard a gurgled cry and a muffled swear.

Morwen dropped into a chair and tried to quell her imagination, which only made things worse.

Adan appeared in the doorway after a little while. "All done and wrapped," he told her. "He passed out and we'd like to move him before he wakes."

Morwen nodded and made room for them to carry Beldir to the cot. When they finished laying him out, she studied Beldir's open jaw and the slack, sweaty face.

"Thank you, Adan. Beleg," she said. "You've both been a great help to me. I hope this won't make you unpopular with Lord Halmir."

Beleg snorted his opinion of Lord Halmir.

"You're Prince Thengel's friend," said Adan. "That counts for a lot more than whatever Lord Halmir might dish out for a good deed."

Morwen felt herself grow warm at the way Adan included her in band of friendship. "Thank you. Prince Thengel is lucky in his friends."

When they were gone, she brought a cup of water and a rag to clean up Beldir. Thatch and dirt stuck to his hair, making him look like even more like a scarecrow than his gaunt features normally did. She picked out the pieces and then washed the sweat and dirt from his face, something he would not allow her to do if he were awake. Morwen hoped he would stay asleep until Midhel came with some potion for the pain.

Her work done, Morwen sat beside the bed with nothing to do but wait for the healing and think over what Beldir's fall meant for her situation. Strawberry would need to be unsaddled and her bags brought back into the house.

Morwen balled her hands into fists and buried them in her lap. If Prince Thengel had luck, Morwen seemed to have none. Beldir wouldn't be riding any horse today and neither would she. Minas Tirith felt impossibly far away.

…

AN: Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate it!

Character list:

Adan: ranger, friend of Thengel's

Adrahil: Prince of Dol Amroth, Morwen's cousin

Aranel: Adrahil's wife, princess of Dol Amroth

Beldir: Overseer at Bar-en-Ferin

Beleg: ranger, friend of Thengel's

Cenhelm: Captain of Thengel's honor guard

Ecthelion: Captain of Gondor's armies, son of Turgon

Fengel: King of Rohan, Thengel's estranged father

Ferneth: Hardang's wife, Lady of Lossarnach

Forlong: Ferneth's infant son

Gildis: Morwen's servant

Gundor: Morwen's servant, apprentice to Beldir

Guthere: One of Thengel's honor guard, injured in Lossarnach

Hardang: Lord of Lossarnach, deceased, Morwen's cousin

Halmir: Hardang's useless brother, Morwen's cousin

Hareth: Morwen's cook

Hundor: Hardang's youngest useless brother, Morwen's cousin

Idhren: Ecthelion's wife

Ioneth: Morwen's young servant

Nanneth: Healer in Imloth Melui

Morwen: the mistress of Bar-en-Ferin

Oswin: Marshal of Riddermark, Thengel's uncle

Thengel: exiled prince of Rohan

Turgon: Steward of Gondor, father of Ecthelion

Wynflaed: Thengel's sister, princess &amp; shieldmaiden

Wynlaf: Queen of Rohan

Various soldiers from Arnach

Places:

Lossarnach: A southern fief of Gondor

Imloth Melui: a valley in Lossarnach along the river Erui

Bar-en-Ferin: "House of Beeches," Morwen's estate in Imloth Melui

Minas Tirith: the capitol of the country of Gondor, seat of the kings and stewards

Rohan: Referred to as the Riddermark, the country north of Gondor

Edoras: the capitol city of Rohan

Aldburg: the founding settlement of the Eorlingas in Rohan


	19. Wars and Rumors of Wars

Minas Tirith

The mountain ranges of Middle-earth looked like a great, two-legged worm. To the north of the map, which lay on Thengel's table, the Grey Mountains formed a forked tail and hind leg, while the Misty Mountains jutted southward into a spine, splitting at the shoulders to become the Ered Nimrais. The hair on the back of Thengel's arm rose as his fingers traced the snarling jaws of the Ered Lithui and Ephel Dúath. They locked around the Black Lands with three hooked teeth and a malicious, snarled lip. In the midst of those great jaws fire swelled into rivers, or had done once. A frightening, fire-breathing head. And now, they knew, it harbored a growing nest for goblin filth.

Within the first week of Thengel's arrival from Lossarnach, Men and Dwarves from Rhovanion had arrived to represent their new kings to Steward Turgon. They carried with them the tidings of the battle of five armies. The event had been concealed from Gondor, though not the aftermath. The unforgiving winter, which arrived early and tarried long in those regions, delayed the messengers, but had not delayed the goblins who had fled in all directions after the rout.

Never in his own lifetime, or his father's lifetime, had the goblins massed so great an army or traveled so far from the protective eaves of their mountains. It reminded Thengel of the tales from the Elder days, which he sometimes read about from books in Turgon's private library.

Thengel would have liked to have seen the Beornings - and the eagles! Elves and Dwarves interested him little. Their careless greed had created ripples that extended out into Ithilien. His finger dipped into the map's pleasant, cool green swirls forming the imaginary dragon's crest. Northern Ithilien. Emyn Arnen. Southern Ithilien. He traced the road down to Lossarnach. In minute script the mapmaker had inked Imloth Melui.

He felt an angry pang on Lady Morwen's behalf. If they had known the upset those Dwarves would cause, Ecthelion could have reinforced the guard in Ithilien, Thengel thought bitterly. They would not have been taken by surprise by the sheer numbers of orcs making for Mordor and all empty lands. Hardang might still be alive to protect his young cousin from his brothers. Instead, the battle had scattered the vermin in all directions like spilled rice.

His thoughts scattered when he heard footsteps outside the sitting room door. He rolled up the map, feeling his shoulders rising stiffly up to his ears. Since he had arrived home, this had become an automatic response to his relations. The steps stopped outside the sitting room and a soft tap of knuckles against wood caused him to relax. Eriston, most likely. Members of his family used their fists.

"Come in."

Eriston entered quietly with a mechanical quality to his long, thin limbs that always reminded Thengel of a stick bug. He had several tunics folded over his arm and a piece of paper in his other hand.

"What would you like me to do with this, my lord? It was hiding at the bottom of your travel bag."

The travel bag had disappeared somewhere in the depths of his wardrobe several weeks ago, Thengel mused. The servant held out a crushed piece of pulpy, handmade paper. Thengel took it and read the name painted across it, remembering Teitherion's instruction to seek out the painting in the Archives. He had resolved to do it, but Oswin (with the help of Wynflaed) kept him on a short leash.

"Thank you, Eriston. I'll keep it." Thengel tucked the card into one of the back signatures of a book lying next to the map. Then he said, "I thought those tunics were clean."

"They are, my lord."

"What are you doing with them?"

"Lady Wynflaed asked to inspect them."

Thengel winced. "What for?"

A muscle jumped in Eriston's cheek. "Lady Wynflaed said, to wit, that she wished to make sure they passed muster, though I assured her I always paid the utmost attention to the care of the garments."

Poor Eriston. Wynflaed's carelessness had bruised his servant's pride more than once since her stay began, leaving Thengel to smooth things over.

"She isn't as familiar with your excellent standards as I am, Eriston. Things are different in Rohan, you see." That seemed to mollify the man a little. At least the tick in his cheek dissolved. "Incidentally, muster for what?"

"The answer is beyond even my imagination, my lord." Eriston shifted, looking uncomfortable, as if admitting a fault. "I have only ever served bachelors."

Thengel cringed, taking the hint. Yes, his sister did have plans for him. He'd never felt this uncomfortable under his own roof before. And now between his uncle and his sister, they were planning to expose him to all manner of mortifications just to make sure the line didn't end in a field or a ditch of Gondor.

Reminded of this, Thengel began to feel that the house felt too warm and too close. He slipped the card from the book, which he set back down in a pile of other volumes he'd rescued from the library.

"Eriston, if anyone's looking for me, I'm headed to the Archives."

"Yes, my lord. And where shall I tell them to find you?"

Thengel grinned. "The old guesthouse?"

Eriston looked gravely at him. "We've used that one before, my lord. It did divert Lady Wynflaed, but the amusement escaped the Marshal."

"It did, didn't it? Training grounds, then." Thengel shrugged. "The sight of a few swords should keep Wynflaed distracted if she comes looking for me. And if my uncle should find himself there, he can comfort himself by complaining about me to Cenhelm."

Eriston blinked. "My lord."

"It's true. They like commiserating together. I can't for the life of me think why," he muttered dryly.

He got up and plucked one of the fresh tunics from Eriston's arms. "Anyway, I'd like to get away without any bother. Distract Wynflaed for me while I change."

Eriston bowed, a little crestfallen, before delivering himself over to his master's frightening sister.

…

Thengel enjoyed two quiet steps toward the door when Wynflaed popped her head out of the study. She stepped fully out when she saw him on the landing. "Uncle wants you before you leave for the Archives."

Eriston! Thengel gritted his teeth. "Traitor."

Wynflaed gave him a dry look. "I almost pity him. If you were more cooperative he wouldn't find himself in such a hard place."

"He works for me, you know," he said, looking at her sideways.

Wynflaed snorted and started fanning herself with a half-crumpled pamphlet she'd taken from his library. She wore a wool dress which, though suitable for a chilly April in Edoras, proved uncomfortably warm for Minas Tirith.

"You should stop worrying about my clothes and have something made for you," he pointed out, noticing the sweat on her upper lip.

"I will," she replied as they entered the library together, "Once you're in order. Lady Idhren provided me with the name of a dressmaker."

"Hurrah," he said under his breath. The relationship between his sister and his friend's wife made him feel vaguely concerned for Idhren's sake – and his own. They could get any amount of information about him from her with only a little flattery and attention.

And if they abused Ecthelion's household the way they abused his, then he would have to make amends. The library bore little resemblance to the quiet, Gondorian reading room it once had been. For one thing, it smelled like an old horse blanket and someone had propped a freshly oiled spear against the wall. Uncle Oswin sat ensconced in Thengel's favorite armchair. He had one of Thengel's books on his lap, paper draped over it while he wrote a letter. Thengel clenched his fingers into fists, imagining the scrawl permanently indenting the leather binding.

"I've offered you the use of my writing desk before, Uncle."

Oswin looked up. "Oh, good morning."

"Wynflaed says you wanted me?"

She chose to lean against the wall, still fanning herself, so Thengel seated himself on the empty couch across from his uncle. Oswin looked down at the papers in his lap, shuffling through them. "We need your opinion on the guest list for the feast Turgon is preparing. Wynflaed's sources have been most helpful in supplying it for us, but I thought you might want to check it over."

"Guest list for what?"

"The Steward's feast for the kings' envoy from Esgaroth," Wynflaed said dispassionately. "Don't tell me you've forgotten."

"Oh. Yes."

They watched him read the names so he kept his expressions neutral. He tossed the page onto the low table between the sofa and his uncle's chair.

"The usual crowd. What of it?"

"Don't you see the opportunity to find a wife? Very convenient, these Lakemen coming here just at this time."

"It won't help your efforts at all. There aren't any Rohirric families on this list."

Oswin and Wynflaed exchanged a look. She shrugged.

"It wouldn't help you if there were," she drawled. "No woman of Riddermark in her right mind will have you."

"Wynflaed, mind your tongue." Oswin stood between the pair. "I didn't bring you to trade insults."

Wynflaed shrugged. "Another time, then."

Oswin ignored her. "Thengel, I hope you won't make this little gesture of ours difficult. We are doing it for you, after all."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to be left alone."

Oswin gave him a sharp look. "Thengel, I warned you that I wanted news of a wedding before the next year ends or steps would be taken. I've kept my boot planted firmly on your father's robes all this time to give you a modicum of peace. Don't fool yourself into thinking that he isn't interested in what you get up to here. Don't make me regret the intervention."

"First, it will take more than a feast for me to find a wife. Second, you can tell Fengel King that he will have to wait until I return to the Mark. I won't choose a wife before then."

"Oh, and why not?" Wynflaed asked.

Thengel rose and walked away from the cluster of chairs and the couch where his family sat. Bema, he hated discussing this subject with his uncle, let alone his older sister whom he hadn't seen in twenty years. Marriage, more than any other aspect of his life, reminded him that his public and private affairs were grafted together. That didn't mean he liked the scrutiny.

"Listen. Whatever you two have planned," he said with forced patience, "I need to see a woman in her own home, at ease among her own people, before I can judge if she has fit character to become queen of the Mark. One evening dancing in Mundburg among her competitors won't cut it."

Oswin rubbed his forehead as his nephew drained his patience. "Thengel, your father is hale as a wild boar. Twenty years may pass ere he does. Do you think any woman of childbearing years would have you by then?"

"Do you think any of them will have him now?"

"Wynflaed," they both shouted. She stuck out her chin in defiance.

"Well then, let's hope fate intervenes," Thengel continued. "One day Fengel King might choke on a bone and speed his end."

Wynflaed snorted. "Twenty years you've been away and you still haven't learned any respect."

"Fengel King inherited a throne," Thengel muttered, "respect is earned."

"He is your father," said Oswin, voice thickly accented with disappointment.

Thengel folded his arms. "You and Turgon were better fathers to me than Fengel ever was."

"Yes, and see how I am treated for my pains over my sister-son."

"I'm sorry," Thengel replied sullenly.

Oswin pointed a finger at him. "Prove it by doing as I ask. I'm not a young man, Thengel. My time here is limited, more limited even than Fengel's. I've done my best to support Wynlaf and her children, to make sure that the throne is protected in your absence. For the sake of the Riddermark and your mother, I'm begging you, Thengel, cooperate."

"What do you want me to do?" Thengel asked wearily, dropping back onto the couch. "He sent me here."

Oswin tapped himself on the chest. "I sent you. Your father had other plans and you know it. Put aside your past hurts and for once think about the good of your countrymen. Quit throwing yourself in front of every orc arrow in that benighted forest —" he held up his hand to silence Thengel's outburst. "Until you've provided an heir. You're a warrior; it's in your blood to fight. I know. You've proved your valor more than once under Lord Ecthelion, but every scratch on your person threatens to sink the Riddermark into chaos. Find a wife. Secure the line. Then throw yourself into whatever orc nest you desire."

Wynflaed, who seemed to have shrunk during Oswin's speech, suddenly perked up. "Like the one in Eriador? I wish you had sent me."

"Wynflaed, hush."

Thengel moved over so Wynflaed could sit next to him on the sofa. "This feast takes place before anyone from Rohan has time to arrive. I don't see how some feast in Minas Tirith is going to help you achieve your desired aim."

"Who said the bride had to be from the Mark?" Wynflaed interrupted. "Surely there are women at ease in their own homes even in this queer place," she said without masking a sneer.

A thread in Thengel's mind seemed to snap. He stared at Oswin stupidly. "Not from the Mark?"

Oswin bowed his head. "Not from the Mark. These Gondorian women are quite pretty and surely some of them might even be hearty enough."

Wynflaed looked somewhat doubtful, Thengel noted, but the need for compromise compelled them.

"Wait." Thengel held his hand up, dropped it, then held it up again. "You don't think marrying a Gondorian woman would divide the Mark?"

Oswin smiled grimly. "It would cause a stir. But if you were to die and your father's cousins fought for the throne, it would ruin us."

If his cousins wanted the throne so much, why not let them compete for it during Fengel's lifetime?

"The House of Eorl has other sons," he reflected, trying the idea out. He tried to imagine what it would feel like, life untethered to the throne. Poor Cenhelm. This conversation would kill him. "Let Fengel name a second if he wants."

"How will he choose among his sisters' sons?" Oswin asked. "Aethelstan is the firstborn of your father's eldest sister. He has several sons and grandsons to carry on the third line - the third line, Thengel. He owns a great herd of horses and knows the land well. But your cousin Freomund's father is the marshal of Westmark and has considerable clout among the warriors. It's warriors we need," Oswin finished solemnly. "More so after what we have learned of late."

"Fritha might have sons," Thengel pointed out. "She might remarry. Three years have passed since you wrote me of Sigbert's death in that clash with the Dunlendings at the fords."

"Thengel, Fritha is thirteen years older than you," Wynflaed groused. "Even if she were wed again, her years of childbearing all but spent."

"Well, what about you then?"

Lightning flashed in Wynflaed's eyes. "Little better!" she spat. "I am a shieldmaiden and have sworn never to marry."

"No one has ever required shieldmaidens to take that oath," Thengel pointed out, "you only did it to spite Father."

Wynflaed glared accusation at Oswin. "Is that what you think happened? And you put it in a letter to Thengel?"

Oswin shrugged. "It was a matter of state. You refused to marry that boy Aelfric and I was depending on it to smooth things over with his father and the king."

She rounded on Thengel. "How can you possibly ask me to break my vow to protect the Riddermark if you won't do your duty?"

"How can you force a wife on me if you wouldn't marry Aelfric?"

"That was different," she growled.

"Hush, Thengel. Wynflaed is right," said Oswin. "You have a duty to the Mark. I can work around Aelred and his sons."

"I'm aware of my duty," he replied sullenly. "I'm just not thrilled by your methods."

"Thengel, we have our reasons. This is the Third Age, after all. What we have learned of Esgaroth has shaken us all. And maybe King Bard and King Dain have been restored, but we cannot rely on them to shield us from our enemies. Rather, they have kicked the hornets' nest and we are feeling the sting in the south. Orcs aren't multiplying on Gondor's borders only, you know. There's the Dunlendings squeezing us from the west, too. Do not think I sent you to Gondor on a whim. I could have sent you north where you might have learned some humility as a lowly fisherman among the ruins of Long Lake." He laughed bitterly. "That would have been quite the lesson had you survived it."

"I wish you had sent me," Wynflaed muttered.

This was the first Thengel had heard of any other plan. He leaned forward. "Why to Gondor, then?"

"To learn. To strengthen the alliance between the Mark and Gondor."

Thengel leaned back, disappointed. "Eorl swore an oath which we have honored to this day. What more do you expect me to do?"

"What are oaths if they are not accompanied by action? It won't surprise you to hear that Fengel King would have undone all the work of his brothers Folcred and Fastred to secure that bond between our lands."

"Not in the least."

"But you have built it up. I know Lord Ecthelion and Steward Turgon value you. I hear they call you Thengel Thrice-Renowned," Oswin said with a rare thread of pride in his voice. "I'm not a seer, but I can read the signs of earth and air. There's darkness ahead for the Riddermark if we are not prepared. These men from Esgaroth only confirm it with their tales of the great goblin hordes leaving the mountains. When orcs forget to fear our spears, there's more at work in the world. We will need a strong alliance with Gondor in the long years ahead. And you know better than any that Gondor's strength isn't waxing. Who knows what may pass?"

"I have Ecthelion's friendship. What more does Rohan require?"

"You have Ecthelion's friendship now, but who will remember it when you are both gone? Marry. Bring a sliver of Gondor to the Mark. Choose a woman from a family of some importance who will remember her. Bring her language and customs to the Hall, bring your understanding of history and martial arts. Open the way for greater trade and trust."

Bring her language and customs? Now Thengel felt it was his turn for anger. What was Oswin playing at? "There would be a coup if I forced Westron or anything else Gondorian on the Mark."

"Oh, there will be grumbling." Oswin waved his hand as if to fan away the inconsequential puff of indignation that would arise. "We are a nation of grumblers and dark brows. But we need a common language, Thengel. We cannot afford to stand apart from the world."

Thengel's gaze passed suspiciously between the conspirators. He couldn't believe his sister wasn't objecting to Oswin's theories too. Then he realized that their uncle had had more time to wear down any resistance she might have felt while they were in Rohan.

"I don't suppose just any girl would do?"

Oswin stroked his beard. "Well, she would need to be connected…but not so well connected that they wouldn't want to lose her to what she must consider to be a more rustic society. As for who, you would have a better idea," Oswin said innocently. "Surely there are women whom you have known 'at ease in their own homes' as you put it."

"Who are willing to put up with you," Wynflaed added.

Thengel grinned, feeling like he'd finally gotten his legs under him. "Sure," he drawled, nearly happy. "They're all married now. You should've come ten years ago." He leaned back on the couch and laughed. For years he'd kept his distance from more than one beautiful woman because he knew there was no chance for them to marry.

He stopped laughing and rubbed his eyes. After the initial burst of mirth, he felt the fiery tongues of anger licking over him again. Bema, what an absurd mess.

Faintly, he heard the bells toll the hour. Thengel remembered the paper in his pocket. Already the morning had slipped away.

"Well, Uncle. Wynflaed. I've had my fill of this talk."

He rose and made his way to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To the Archives, as you well know," he called over his shoulder. "And I don't want to be bothered even if the Haradrim lay siege to the city."

"And what if we come across a suitable bride?" he heard Wynflaed say.

"Especially not for that!"

…

Thengel entered the Archives in a foul mood with the morning's new paradigm swirling around in his mind. He approached the long desk commanding the center of the anteroom at a clip, nearly knocking over a scholar crossing in the opposite direction. After a brief lecture by the scholar and an apology in his side, Thengel proceeded to the desk at a steadier pace, leaning against the wood in a way that felt casual.

He had a good view of the clerk's hasty job with a comb as the young man bent at a 90 degree angle over the wood, scratching away with his pen on stiff cards laying in a line before him. The hawk-nosed clerk jotted a final note onto his small card before tucking the lot into bundles near a pile of books. He glanced up with a start, noticing the prince leaning over him.

"How may I serve you, Prince Thengel?" the clerk said as he bowed deeply. He sounded like he suffered from a complaint in the nose. "What information do you seek today?"

"Not information, but a painting." Thengel took out the slip of paper that had been tucked into the cuff of his undershirt. "I believe the Archives house a special collection of works by an artist called Teitharion."

The clerk raised an eyebrow in thought. "Teitharion. Let me see." He turned his back on Thengel to consult a shelf of indexes behind the counter. He hummed to himself as he turned pages and scrolled his fingers down the minute print. "Ah, yes." He turned toward Thengel again. "It appears we do have a small collection by this fellow. I will refer you to Master Pengoloth, the art curator." He tapped briskly on the desk and a sleepy-eyed page boy materialized out of nowhere. "Lead Prince Thengel to Master Pengoloth's chamber - and no detours on the way back, my lad."

The boy squeaked a reply in an injured tone, then squirreled away through the doorway into the gut of the archives. Thengel had to jump to keep up with the boy. He followed the page through arched hallways with closed doors on either side. The corridor was dim as the light penetrating high windows did not reach the floor. Dust motes swirled overhead and Thengel found himself studying the pattern caused by the light and air and granules. The deeper they walked, he was starting to feel closed in. It reminded him of a trip he had taken with this uncle to Helm's Deep as a small boy. As any self-respecting lad would have done, he'd wandered off and gotten himself stuck in a dark corner. He'd never liked to be enclosed by stone without some view of the outer world.

In the middle of the long line of doors, the boy stopped and rapped smartly on the door to the right. Stepping back, the boy waited with a stony expression. He couldn't be more than ten years old, Thengel thought. It was probably a dreary job, scampering up and down a dim hallway delivering messages or bussing patrons back and forth to reading rooms. At his age, Thengel had learned to ride over the meadows surrounding Edoras, getting into scrapes, and wandering too far.

Thengel was about to ask the boy what he thought about his job when a voice on the other side of the door bid them to enter. The page opened the door for Thengel, then darted off back down the corridor.

Master Pengoloth stood at an impressive height behind a canvas-encumbered table. Mats were strewn over the surface along with pieces of frame. It looked more like a carpenter's bench, Thengel thought, than a scholar's studio. Short steel nails filled a jar on an adjoining counter. Pigments lined a narrow shelf above the counter, while brushes of every size soaked in mugs of water below. He saw a canister of turpentine with the lid slightly askew near an explosion of cotton wool.

The archivist's silver-black hair was bound in a plait that hung over his shoulder. Thengel noticed that the tip had come into contact with one of the jar of varnish littered around the table. It had left an inverted arc of gloss along the archivist's robes.

The place smelled of lemons, onions, old wood, and turpentine. It made Thengel's head feel giddy and he forgot to introduce himself. But, the advantage of being the only straw-headed resident in the city rendered that unnecessary. His looks announced him wherever he went.

"Prince Thengel, I believe," said Pengoloth with unconcealed surprise. He bowed quickly. "Come in, please."

"I'm interrupting your work, Master Pengoloth," Thengel observed.

"No, no. Only a bit of restoration. I've been breathing in too much turpentine, as it is. How may I serve you?"

The master came around the table to usher Thengel inside and close the door.

Thengel held out the card again. "I'm looking for a painting, one by a man called Teitherion. He told me that all his works were stored here."

Pengoloth winced, as if at some memory of the eccentric painter. "Yes, indeed. Teitherion. Well. Let me see." He opened an upright chest that contained unbound indexes separated by a matrix of wooden slats. He ran his finger over the tiny brass plates below each cube until he landed on the one he wanted. "Here it is. The inventory of items by the painter Teitherion, their names, dates, provenance, etc. And do you know which of these you wished to see?"

Thengel scanned the list that Master Pengoloth held. Most of the names were ambiguous. A farmhouse on the Pelennor. A ship on the Harlond. Soldiers drinking at the Old Inn. The usual thing. With so many words on the page, they all seemed to blend together. Thengel let his eyes relax. After a moment, a word floated to the surface. Exile.

"There it is." He pointed to a line two-thirds of the way down. "I wish to see that one."

Master Pengoloth cleared his throat. "Eh, _The Wayward Son in Exile_. Well. The obvious choice, haha. Er." He tried his hide his embarrassment by replacing it in its file.

"Now," said Pengoloth, reaching for a small, enclosed lamp hanging near the door, "If you'd just follow me. I'll take you to the collection."

He rolled back a tapestry hanging from the wall like a curtain, revealing an unlocked door. Thengel stared down the dim stairway for a moment, not liking to go where he couldn't see beyond a few feet. But then he followed behind the master into the catacombs below.

….

Thengel felt his nerves fraying as they progressed into the archives. It grew worse once they reached the end of the art repositories and discovered that locating the painting would prove more difficult than Master Pengoloth had supposed. Here, the lesser-known artists' offerings languished in the dark. Constant light was anathema in the archives as fire from the lamps threatened the safety of the collection. The master's own small lamp revealed little of the secrets around them.

They were in a large room laid out like a warehouse on the Harlond, Thengel thought, with rose of wooden racks stacked on top of one another. Many of the shelves within the chamber had begun to sag over the years. The brass plates nailed into the end caps, which stated the holdings for each unit, had begun to peel. Pengoloth clucked his tongue at the condition, but plainly the state reflected the people's feelings about these artists.

The painting had been wrapped in cloth and filed carefully lying down in the cool chambers. With some inspired guessing, Master Pengoloth managed to locate Teitherion's collection and unearth the painting in question. He gave Thengel the lamp to carry while he delivered the painting to an antechamber, which a curtain split from the storage area. The room contained brackets along the walls for torches, a table and a bench. Thengel lit a few torches using the lamp and one of the tapers he found in a basket near the door. Meanwhile, the Master donned a pair of soft gloves he kept hanging in his belt. He gingerly unwrapped the cloth but Thengel stopped him at the last fold still obscuring the canvas.

"If you will allow me," Thengel said, taking the corner of the cloth. He could just see the brass plate at the bottom of the frame.

_The Wayward Son in Exile. _The lamplight glinted off the engraved words and suddenly Thengel found himself afraid to confront what lay beneath the cloth and whatever sensations it would awaken. Certainly he did not want a near stranger to witness it.

"You may go."

Master Pengoloth puffed his cheeks, not pleased with the dismissal, but not daring to refuse a prince. Reluctantly, he retraced his steps out of the anteroom, saying that he would just run up to his study for a minute or two.

Now alone, Thengel turned aside the cloth, then glanced at the painting quickly the way one tore off a scab. Then he drew the cloth back over the image and sat down. A piece of paper fluttered out from the wrappings and drifted to the floor. He bent to pick it up.

It read:

_Then are we all undone. _

_It is not possible, it cannot be, _

_The king should keep his word in loving us..._

_My nephew's trespass may be well forgot; _

_it hath the excuse of youth and heat of blood, _

_And an adopted name of privilege, _

_A hair-brain'd Hotspur, govern'd by a spleen.**_

Thengel recognized the passage from a play, which had not been written about him. But it fit the painting rather well, if out of context. He could hear Uncle Oswin's bear-like voice in each word. _Hair-brain'd Hotspur, govern'd by a spleen_. It was as if the playwright had met the marshal, a voice he remembered with better clarity than his own father's.

He turned the cloth over again to have another look, this time allowing himself to go more slowly. Teitherion's style struck Thengel as unusual. Bold strokes of oil gave the impression of form, with the barest outline of light or color to rein it in. Thengel had to look at the painting from a distance to make it out. The closer he stood, the less sense the brush strokes made. It forced him to take in the whole.

The whole of it consisted of the high street hemmed in by the towering buildings of Minas Tirith as it wound toward the next circle gate. A gray gelding seemed to snort a challenge at the pressing crowd. A beam of sunlight slanted downward, drawing the eye toward a grim-faced boy with jumbled, golden hair. Thengel hadn't known he'd worn such a hard expression. On the inside he had felt nothing but terror and the growing reality of his new situation. Exile. Around the boy, the faces of the crowd were formless, unintelligible, unrecognizable. It felt as if Teitherion meant to capture all of Thengel's innermost feelings that day. Yet how had had the artist known?

Thengel shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He hadn't known which moment Teitherion would capture, but he remembered that day with immediate clarity. The fear, the pride, and the only familiar sensation being the horse that carried him, Firewave. Thengel grimaced. Fyrwylm, he should have thought.

Uncle Oswin hadn't let Thengel return for Brymwylm that last night in Meduseld, the beautiful stallion he had received for his eighteenth birthday. Instead, Thengel had threatened his father, received a death sentence, and had to settle for a borrowed gelding. He had christened Fyrwylm along the escape route to Firienholt where he was to meet up with his first honor guard in exile.

They had become friends despite Fyrwylm's habit of snorting spit and grass in Thengel's face whenever he could. Teitherion had captured some of that brutish trait in his rendering of Fyrwylm. That horse had become Thengel's one comfort on that terrible ride into Minas Tirith, a city that seemed to reach into the sky. So full of people and their odd language and dark looks that Thengel swore he'd rather face a pack of orcs than allow himself to be swallowed by the great gates gaping over the Pelennor. At least he knew what to expect from orcs. And once he entered that city, it would be absolutely final. He couldn't go on pretending he could go home.

Fyrwylm did, though. Go home. Thengel had sent him back to Rohan more than five years ago to enjoy a well-earned retirement racing over the plains where he'd played as a colt. For one unguarded moment, Thengel allowed himself to ache for that same green and the roar of the spring wind in the long grass as it raced down from the mountains.

A moment was enough. Or too much. The sensations Thengel feared to face when first he lifted the cloth had finally come upon him.

...

Master Pengoloth pushed the curtained door aside to enter the room. When he saw the prince, he paused for a moment, arrested by the younger man's expression. Then he quickly and quietly backed out again before Thengel could look up.

Then a man covered in road dust pushed through the curtain and stood before the table.

Thengel scowled and spoke without taking his eyes off the painting as he hastily drew the cloth back over the canvas. "I told the archivist that I was not to be disturbed."

"It's worth the nuisance in my case."

That voice reverberated through Thengel's brain. It meant one thing to him and he rose swiftly. Adan stood before him looking like he had come to the archives fresh off the street after riding all day.

"What's happened?"

The significance of his friend's appearance wasn't lost on Thengel. The ranger raised a hand toward the prince, but Thengel rounded the table to stand before him. He grasped Adan's shoulders.

"What has happened to Morwen?"

"She is well," Adan said through a grimace. "Mostly."

"Go on. Did you leave her alone in Imloth Melui?"

Adan managed to free himself from Thengel's grip. "Of course not. She's here in the city. We've been riding since daybreak."

Thengel looked around as if Adan had abandoned her in the archives. "Where?"

"Safe with Prince Adrahil. I delivered her there myself this afternoon."

Thengel ran his fingers through his hair, thinking. "What drove her to Minas Tirith?"

Adan looked at him strangely. "Drove, you say? Wise words. Things went from bad to worst before she asked me to bring her up, but it is Lady Morwen's business and you must ask her yourself." Adan pressed Thengel's arm when he looked ready to bolt. "Stay. She's in no immediate danger. And anyhow, she's in her cousin's keep now. What can you do for her that he can't?"

"You're right," Thengel admitted. "Of course."

"There is one thing you can do," Adan continued.

"Yes?"

Adan's lips curled sourly. "Lord Halmir knows by now that I traveled with her."

Thengel considered his road-worn friend. "Come, you'll stay in my home. Then tomorrow we will go to Ecthelion together to see what can be done about it."

Adan shook Thengel's hand. "That is exactly what I wish." Then he looked down at the half-covered painting. "What were you looking at?"

Thengel steered Adan away from the painting toward the curtain. "Nothing. A mere painting someone recommended to me. Let's go. Master Pengoloth will want to put it away."

Together they passed through the antechamber and began the long ascent to the top.

* * *

*The Battle of Five Armies (complete with battle pigs, if you believe the film) occurred on November 23, 2941, preceding the events of this story. It is now early late April 2942 and Bilbo and Gandalf have yet to arrive again in Rivendell. Gondor has been enjoying the fallout of that mess without knowing the reason. Sauron, though having fled to Mordor, will not announce himself until 2951 - two years before Thengel takes the throne in Rohan and Ecthelion succeeds his father as Steward. Auspicious beginning.

**_William Shakespeare's Henry IV pt. 1 __V,2,2773__,_


	20. Adrahil and Aranel

Morwen stood wearily before the grand staircase dominating the ground floor of the home belonging to the Princes of Dol Amroth. Adan had left her at the door to seek Prince Thengel. Before bringing her things in, he had asked if she wished to send any message to the prince, but she had declined. Instead, she had asked him not to discuss anything he had witnessed in Imloth Melui of her cousin's behavior. Not that Adan or Prince Thengel wouldn't be discrete, but it only took one unobserved servant or an overheard conversation in the street to start rumors. She hoped to keep the story away from the tongue-waggers as long as possible. Not that anyone would pay attention to the name of Morwen of Lossarnach, but Halmir was known in the city. That and the nature of the situation were bound to arouse interest and she wished more than anything to keep her family from that kind of exposure.

Now, the servant who answered the door had gone in search of his master and she had refused his offer to show her into the drawing room. She imagined herself tracking in all the dirt from the road into her cousin's fine room and grinding it into the upholstery wherever she sat. It wouldn't do. Besides, the thought of sitting made her bruised legs and backside throb. Though, come to think of it, they were throbbing anyway. What difference would it make? She was just looking about for a chair when she heard someone on the stairs. Echoes of footsteps grew louder with each turn of the banister until she saw a tall fellow rapidly turn the corner and come into view, skipping steps as he went along. She lifted her chin and rose to her full height as soon as she saw him. Yes, she had run away from Halmir with her tail between her legs, but she didn't intend to look like she had.

"Ye gods, Morwen!"

Adrahil paused midway down the steps then adopted a slower, statelier stride. He looked well, if greatly concerned by seeing her. In studying his face she could see echoes of her father's and it gave her both pain and pleasure. They had the same expressive gray eyes, narrow nose and a diamond-shaped jaw. His black hair swept his shoulders. He had cut it since his marriage, she reflected. If Adrahil could be accused of any vanity, it was with his hair and he had always worn it long.

"Did you come by yourself?" he called. "Where's Beldir?"

"In bed with a broken leg," she told him. "My traveling companion has gone to seek his own lodgings."

"Who?"

"A man called Adan."

"Who?"

"Adan," she shouted. When Adrahil looked concerned, she added, "Can't we talk at the bottom of the stair? I hate shouting."

When Adrahil reached the floor he embraced his cousin. Morwen tried to stand tall and stoic, but once she felt the warm security of his arms, any pretense of that kind melted away. She leaned into him.

"Why, Morwen, what is the matter?" he asked into her hair. "We received your letter yesterday, but it raised more questions than answers. Thank the Valar it wasn't delayed another day or you might have missed us altogether."

Morwen pushed away from him, blinking some betraying fragment out of her eye. "Missed you?"

"Yes. We were supposed to leave for Dol Amroth today."

She looked so alarmed that he hugged her again. "Nevermind. A little delay won't matter. It's good to see you, besides. I regret that Aranel and I missed the cherry trees this year."

"I'm getting dirt all over your clothes," she murmured into his chest.

"Lossarnach dirt, as you know, never hurt anyone," he said stoutly. That made Morwen laugh quietly. "Come along, you're dead on your feet. Aranel says you're to wash, eat, sleep, and then we will discuss your letter - exactly in that order. Never mind about your bag. Dineth will bring it up."

Morwen allowed herself to be led upstairs by her cousin, relieved to have his arm to lean on. Her legs were in revolt, unaccustomed as they were to such a long ride. They had also forgotten the long, steep stairs that were the staple of Minas Tirith's townhouses.

"Where is Aranel?" she asked when they reached a landing.

"In her rooms." He glanced around, and then lowered his voice. "She had another attack in her lungs this morning so on the whole I think it's better we didn't sail first thing."

"Is it very bad?" Morwen asked.

"It can be," he said gravely. "One never knows when an attack will begin and then it knocks her off her feet completely, sometimes for days. The worst is trying not to panic when her breathing becomes a struggle." He paused and a grim expression darkened his face. "On second thought, the worst is when her mother hovers about. I swear the woman only makes Aranel more anxious when she tries to _nurse_ her. That won't be the case in Dol Amroth, for she certainly won't be invited as long as I can help it."

"And the healers? Do their opinions coincide with yours?"

"Aranel's an old friend of theirs," he said dryly. "Frankly, I think they don't know what they're doing. One suggested she drink honey with a paste made from…no, I won't tell you. It's too disgusting. But the sea air will do her good, of that I'm certain. Minas Tirith may be dry, but Dol Amroth doesn't have half the dust."

"It doesn't need dust," Morwen replied, "with all that sand."

A humbled grin spread over Adrahil's face. "No, I guess not."

"Won't Aranel miss her family?"

Adrahil sighed forcefully. "It will be a much needed break. I'm very fond of Lord Belehir and Lady Rian, but in their hearts she is still the Keeper of the Key's daughter and should be fully at their disposal whenever they want her. They like to forget that she is a princess of Dol Amroth and my wife. We can't stay in Minas Tirith forever." He passed a hand over his face as he spoke.

"In other words, you want to be left alone," she said sympathetically.

"Exactly, my girl." He smiled at her. "Aranel's mother was eager enough to leave us alone while I courted her, but now she's a daily fixture in this house. Remember, Morwen, a newlywed can never see too little of his in-laws."

"Or any of one's relations," she replied. "Present company excepted."

"Thank you!" Adrahil laughed.

"Can't you give Lady Rian a hint that you want to be left alone?"

"Short of bolting the door, you mean? She would only come in through the kitchen or undermine the pantry." His mirth evaporated. "Morwen, about your letter. Why didn't you write to me before this got out of hand? You know I'm always at your service."

Morwen gripped the banister till her knuckles turned white. "I thought I could handle Halmir on his own." She frowned deeply. "I can't always come running to you when there's trouble."

"But now?"

"But now he's revealed a scheme that will ruin the house and me along with it."

Adrahil sober gray eyes studied her. "Because he wants to marry you?"

"Because he borrowed a large sum of money and indebted himself to his friends."

Adrahil whistled. "That never ends badly."

Morwen gave him a pleading look.

"Sorry. We'll talk more on that later. Here's Dineth again to take care of you."

He passed her on to the charge of Aranel's maid. Though she knew the house very well, she allowed herself to be led around to the bath where she could clear away the memory of the road.

…

Morwen awoke the next day having never seen Aranel or Adrahil after her bath. The mixture of a full day's riding, chronic poor sleep since Halmir's arrival, and oppressed spirits had combined to keep her in bed from the moment she laid her head down for a brief rest. No one disturbed her and so she awoke with fresh morning light on her face, much earlier than usual without the obstruction of the beloved valley walls of Imloth Melui.

Morwen rolled onto her back and hugged one of the many pillows to her chest. The mattress seemed to drag her downward toward more sleep, but she yawned and fought it off. She never lounged like this at home. By now she would be catching up with Beldir to begin the work of the day. The wind would be in her hair and she'd have a horsefly bite on her arm. The dogs would be scaring off the birds and squirrels. And then she'd have to rescue Gundor from one of his blunders. Morwen smiled for as long as she could before Halmir appeared on the edge of her imagination to spoil it.

The change in scenery had already begun its magical transformation on her mind, even if it couldn't entirely eliminate the dread she felt. She never thought she would feel happier to leave Lossarnach. The oppressive air in the valley since Halmir and Hundor's arrival seemed to slip from her shoulders like a suffocating mantle as the road stretched onward. She could remember her home the way it had been, but never for very long.

She would be in her orchard right now if Adan hadn't put himself forward as an accomplice. They'd left the house before dawn with only Hareth and Gildis to see them off, and a hasty note from Nanneth.

Well, that wasn't strictly true. A few of Halmir's men were awake and sitting around a little fire. They had observed all of Adan's movements and no doubt reported it. Her chest squeezed painfully around her rapidly beating heart, restricting her breath as she wondered what Halmir was doing right this moment without her presence to check him.

She breathed deeply for several minutes without much effect. The anxiety Halmir provoked would do her more harm over the long run, she knew, than the actuality of his threats. His bullying, his disregard, his foolishness, his caprice would always cause her pain and weariness long after she got used to Bar-en-Ferin being leveled and rebuilt to suit his fancy. She had to extricate herself from Halmir one way or another, and for that she would need help.

Adrahil remained her last hope.

…

Her first opportunity to speak to her cousins came after breakfast. They were seated in Aranel's chambers where Morwen had unfolded all the events of the past several weeks.

Aranel looked wan the way a woman does in a painting. Her illness looked beatific and her weakness accentuated dreamy, dark eyes and sorrowful lips. Next to this woman, Morwen felt like a red-faced farm girl. Aranel was Adrahil's age, Morwen knew, and her father was the highest official in Minas Tirith under the Steward, and here they were chatting away in her dressing room like it was a matter of state.

Though she barely knew Morwen, Aranel had placed herself next to her and took her hand in a motherly fashion. She could feel every callus and scrape on Morwen's hands and fingers, but never said a word about them. Morwen liked her already.

The prince and his wife had been discussing the matter between them while Morwen's tired mind wandered in and out of the conversation. Each word seemed like an added steel band around her heart that constricted as time went by so she distracted herself with other things.

"But I thought the land legally belonged to Randir," Morwen heard Aranel say while she was thinking about her callouses. "Didn't Hador give it to him?"

"No. Hador is Morwen's grandfather. Her great uncle Hathol, Halgemir's heir and Halmir's grandfather, leased the land to Randir through Hirwen."

"Which one is Halgemir again?" Aranel pressed delicate fingers to her temple as the names rolled on. If the names weren't already so familiar to Morwen, she might have done the same. The naming conventions on her mother's side could baffle even the Wise.

"If Randir owned the land, Hathol's line would lose the rents and valuable property," Adrahil droned on. "He wouldn't allow Imloth Melui to go outside the family."

"But Hirwen was Hathol's niece." She looked expressively at Morwen. "It is still in the family."

Adrahil scratched his jaw while he thought.

"A niece doesn't have the same…er, rights, as a son or even a nephew, Aranel," Adrahil pointed out. "If Hirwen had been his nephew, the estate would have remained inside the family. Hador had to consider the possibility that down the line one of his heirs might have more than one son to provide for and he couldn't give it away to a woman who, by marriage, would belong to another family. If Morwen inherited the land from Hirwen, the land would fall away from Hathol's line and belong in name to Randir's line."

"The Princes of Belfalas, you mean?" she asked.

Adrahil nodded. Morwen wanted to sink into the floor. She hadn't considered any this and began to deeply regret the vague terms of her hold on Bar-en-Ferin. Had her parents anticipated any trouble, she might have been spared - either from the fond attachment to a home she believed to be permanent, or else to have had it safeguarded for her through a binding contract.

Aranel leaned forward in her seat as she continued to question Adrahil, although she looked as tired as Morwen felt. She was new to the family and didn't know all the intricacies. Morwen could be considered a distant relation, and her connection to Adrahil took some explaining. Her closeness to him owed entirely to her father's insistence on maintaining contact with any relation he could dig up, no matter how obscure. He had been a prolific correspondent.

Then, it nearly took a scholar-like tenacity to untangle her mother's line, if only for the irritating habit of naming descendants with those beginning with the letter H. Ferneth finally broke that tradition with the birth of her son, Forlong. But then, Hardang hadn't been present at his son's birth to gainsay Ferneth, had he?

Now, as Aranel tried to puzzle out the situation and understand everyone's position in the event, something in her face made Morwen think of an owl, perhaps the way her dark eyes focused on her husband's face, and her head turned slightly to the side as she spoke. Given Aranel's position in life, she had a taste for the sort of situation Morwen had landed herself in. It made Aranel a good choice for the wife of a prince. Morwen didn't envy her.

"Then Randir ought to have taken Hirwen's line as his own," Aranel concluded. "If only to guarantee Morwen's claim on the property."

Morwen looked at her cousin's wife, startled by the idea.

Adrahil shot Morwen a glance before answering, "Randir descended from princes of Belfalas - it would have been unconscionable to dissolve his own connection for…"

"An inferior family," Morwen finished.

Adrahil looked hurt. "I don't mean that, Morwen. You know how highly your father valued his Dol Amroth connections. I would never sneer at the house of Lossarnach myself."

"I know. I'm betraying my own feelings at the moment."

While Hardang was alive she had something to be proud of. Now she saw only a low sort of meanness in her mother's relations. And while there was nothing pompous about Randir, he had always tended to his familial pride, which had always been his motivator and his object of study. It framed his life in the way the orchard had framed her mother's.

"What I don't understand," Aranel continued, steering the conversation back to the main, "is that Hardang didn't seem to think he needed Imloth Melui to provide for his brothers. So why should Halmir reclaim it now? Morwen's father passed away a year ago - and Hirwen…" she lowered her voice. "It's been years from what you've told me."

"Hardang didn't yet have an heir, leaving Halmir as next in line, and for one reason or another honored the lease rather than exercise his right to absorb the land under his own or Halmir's management," Adrahil reasoned. "Hardang, I suppose, felt a moral obligation to Morwen. Only a beast would take a farm away from a tenant in good standing. Of course, the tribute received from Imloth Melui is no small matter, which Halmir might have been less willing to pay out to his brother. Isn't that right, Morwen?" He went on before she could reply. "As for Halmir, he had no choice but to obey his brother while he lived."

"Then can't Halmir be happy with Arnach?"

At last Morwen spoke. "I think I might understand it better now than I did at first. You see, Hardang's wife Ferneth gave birth to a son not a week after we received the news of his death. Halmir is no longer the next in line for the fiefdom…and there is Hundor to consider."

Adrahil pressed his fingers into his eyes. "There's nothing worse than a plague of disenfranchised sons to consider." He glanced at Aranel as if to note the matter between them. Then he said, "Halmir will settle for Bar-en-Ferin if he can't have Arnach."

"Why doesn't Halmir just take the plantation, if it's his right?" Aranel asked. "Why does he insist you marry him? Have you ever considered Halmir before now?"

Morwen cringed. "As a husband? Stars, no. Why should I? I haven't considered _anyone_."

Her cousins stared at her with identical expressions of incredulity. Morwen fleetingly wondered if that's what happened to married people.

"Morwen," said Aranel. "Be serious. You haven't thought about marriage at all?"

"Very little," she answered.

Certainly not in personal terms. Marriage happened to other people. She had grown up in a happy home and had arrived at the threshold of adulthood with a vocation and a purpose. Her romantic inclinations were more vague compared to girls who might wish to escape less fortunate domestic situations. The miller's many daughters came to mind.

She had her hands full with the orchard, yes, but she had also been grappling with the loss of a parent and learning to be independent. And there was another aspect to consider - the limited population of Imloth Melui. Whom could she marry? Her choices were beekeepers and woodcutters. Who else? Beldir? Gundor? Most of her neighbors worked for her at some time during the year. While she didn't think that made her in any way superior to anyone, still, the young men treated her with diffidence. No. Marriage was a distant prospect and something she probably would have left to her father and his web of contacts had he lived longer.

"Well, I'd say it's time to look at it as necessary. The truth is," Adrahil spoke with a gentle but firm voice. He wasn't going to honey the truth, but he didn't want to crush her feelings. "Tenants have no guarantee of succession of leased land except by the will of their lord. Hardang honored your claim to hold Bar-en-Ferin after your father, but that was by his good will. The estate is in jeopardy unless you secure your own claim - and defend it."

Adrahil's words had a restorative effect on Morwen. She felt awake for the first time and not a little angry. "And how am I to do that?"

"You might buy the land. If he won't sell, however, then there is one other way and he has already presented it to you," said Adrahil grimly.

"I feel sick," said Morwen into her hands. "All I want is my household and my orchards in order and a carrier sending my fruit to market. And don't tell me Halmir comes as a suitor," she added, holding her palm up when Adrahil and Aranel both tried to speak. "Lovers don't bring a small army to pay court."

Aranel looked hurt. "Adrahil didn't mean you should marry Halmir. Of course you can't marry _him_. He's amoral. But you have to face facts. Unless Hardang's family continues to recognize the verbal agreement between Hador—"

"—Hathol."

"_Yes_…and Randir, you will be out of a household and an income. You will _have to marry_. Really, Morwen, there could be worse fates."

Morwen felt a cold sweat all over her just thinking about it. She had everything she ever wanted. Not only were they going to take it away, but they wanted her to be happy with second best!

"Can nothing truly be done?" She looked pleadingly at Adrahil. "What about the Steward's court?"

Adrahil hesitated. "We can try it, but I'm afraid Turgon interferes as little as possible with the lords' rulings within their own fiefs. Certainly not in a case like this when the lord is acting within his rights."

"But he isn't the Lord of Lossarnach, only the regent. Surely this is a special case."

"I'll arrange to meet with Turgon as soon as may be," Adrahil promised. "But I…I don't want you to depend too greatly on it. We can bring the case before the Steward's court, but you have little to go on and he will not be willing to interfere."

"Isn't that his duty as steward?" she asked.

Adrahil gave her a look that wasn't condescending so much as brotherly frustration at her stupidity. "The Steward defends the realm against outer enemies and maintains the interests of the throne. He wouldn't risk the anger of the barons, my father included, who will rightly begin to fear further encroachment on their affairs."

Morwen clutched the chair as a wave of loss swept over her. She hadn't realized how strongly she depended on Adrahil to present a solution. Hearing the doubt in his voice left her nearly breathless with desperation.

"Then it is hopeless," she said, feeling like the floor had fallen out from under her. Her mind reeled. "What am I going to do?"

"I'm sorry, Morwen." Adrahil truly was, but he wasn't going to lie to her. She hated and appreciated him for it. "While you're here, I think it will be best for you to consider the possibility that you will either have to marry Halmir to keep Bar-en-Ferin, or you will have to make a fresh start somewhere else. I'm not entirely sure what your financial prospects are, but I can help you learn what you can afford to do."

Could she purchase a small home in Imloth Melui? But how would she earn a living? And could she bear to live within sight of the eaves of her former home? Where else could she go?

"Come with us to Dol Amroth for the summer," Aranel invited, as if reading her mind. "The change in scenery might provide you with inspiration."

Morwen shook her head. "I can't leave now. I shouldn't have left at all. In a little while we'll be up to our ears in fruit and preparing for market. Then there's the apples in the fall…" A pang ran through her chest. If Halmir would just be patient and allow her one more autumn, then maybe she could consider walking away. Then she could at least prove to herself that she had done it. If she could run Bar-en-Ferin, she could run any household. It had already ceased to feel like home, but she hadn't proved herself yet.

When she made signs of rising, Adrahil stopped her.

"There is one point in your story I'd like to go back to," he continued slowly. "What is Prince Thengel's interest in all this?"

"Prince Thengel?" Morwen blinked at him, surprised by the change in direction.

"I learned before your arrival that Prince Thengel had been in Lossarnach and I've heard you mention him now several times in your narrative. I had no idea that you knew him."

Aranel looked at Morwen with interest. "How is he involved in all this?"

"Oh," said Morwen tiredly as she slumped back into her seat. "He isn't involved at all. His guard wants to marry my cook."

Adrahil and Aranel exchanged glances.

"Pardon?" Adrahil asked.

"They were my guests, the prince and all this men."

"Your guest at Bar-en-Ferin?"

"Well, yes." He couldn't be _her _guest anywhere else.

"How did that happen?"

"An accident with a fallen tree brought them to me." She saw their confused expressions and sighed. "Prince Thengel fought alongside Hardang in Ithilien, as you know. He came to pay his respects in Arnach, but didn't make it there because of the accident."

Adrahil scratched his head. "But how did they come to be in Imloth Melui in the first place? It's completely out of the way of Arnach."

"I don't know. A shortcut to venison," Morwen said tartly, her shoulders drooping. Ashamed as she was to discover that his attempted visit was only a means of escaping less pleasant business in Minas Tirith, she wasn't going to blacken his name to her cousins. It felt painful enough for her to know it and for some indefinable reason she felt protective of his reputation.

"Venison?" Adrahil parroted. "He went out of his way to hunt?"

"Don't ask me to explain the actions of princes," Morwen mumbled. "I grow fruit."

"Well, nevermind that," said Aranel with a determined, steely look in her eyes. "You're here now. Adrahil will see what can be done with the Steward - and I dare say I can recruit my father. But that will take time. You could be here for a fortnight before he can see Turgon, especially with all the to-do going on with those ambassadors from the north. In the meantime we will make sure that you are so amused you won't think for two minutes about Halmir or Hundor, or whoever they are." That sounded vaguely like a threat to Morwen, but Aranel seemed cheered up by the thought. "There's to be a feast - Adrahil, I completely forgot about it because we were supposed to be gone already! I'll write to Lady Idhren today to let her know that we will attend after all. What a fine thing for Morwen!"

Adrahil and Morwen gave each other mirrored looks of confusion.

"How so?" he asked.

"I dare say she's never been to a feast at Merethrond. They are quite rare these days." She rounded on Morwen, saying, "There will be dancing and interesting people to look at. It will be worth it just to see the place lit up. We can introduce you to the Steward," she added hastily when Morwen began to look alarmed. "Which we may not be able to do before hand. It will only help you gain his favor."

Morwen considered this. "That is a good point." Then her countenance clouded over. "But I won't really know anyone."

Aranel studied her husband while she thought over who would be there. She brightened again. "Prince Thengel will be there, I don't doubt, and you know him!" Aranel gave a little laugh. "Why, you'll practically be related once your cook marries his guard."

Morwen's color changed several times, which her cousins noted with interest. Of course, Aranel was only joking, but it was somewhat true. They wouldn't be related, but they would have a connection. Would Guthere quit his post to stay with Hareth? She would have to explain this development to the Prince.

Very quietly Morwen said, "I don't have a dress." Not after she had dumped wine down the front of it.

An angelic smile suffused Aranel's face. "My dear, I can fix that. Leave everything to me…and my mother."


	21. Favors and Favorites

Thengel and Adan left the house early the next morning. When they were clear of the door, Adan turned around to stare at the house's facade. He whistled. Thengel gave him an inquiring look.

"It seems to me like you could have used an ally before now. Your sister…." His voice broke. "I think she growled at me at supper last night."

Thengel shrugged. "It's an automatic response. She doesn't know she does it."

"And your uncle, he never stopped talking once."

"Does that surprise you?"

"No. Well, yes. Whenever you talked about him, I always imagined an older version of Cenhelm. Grave and ponderous and occasionally forbidding. Marshal Oswin's more of an ox. Maybe he won't stampede you, but if he starts to lean on you, it's best to move quick."

Thengel's laughter echoed around the courtyard until Wynflaed's face appeared in a window, cutting off his mirth. He led Adan toward the street before she could pursue them. Once they were clear of gate, they turned in opposite directions, Adan toward the seventh gate and Thengel toward the sixth.

Thengel tapped Adan on the arm. "This way."

Adan looked puzzled. "But aren't we going to the Steward's home?"

"We are, but there's important business to attend to first."

Adan followed him down several levels toward the market. They stopped outside a shop that looked like it had belched up half its stock onto the curb. Crude crates of wooden dogs and horses with fixed painted grins stared at them next to baskets of long sticks dripping ribbon onto the stones. Thengel stopped before a pile of assorted weapons. Three boys were also considering them while giving covert glances at the master of the toyshop, just visible through the darkened door. The methodic scraping of a knife against wood could be heard from within.

Adan picked up a wooden sword lying in a pile and slashed the air with it. The boys scattered.

"Are you going to convince Captain Ecthelion to equip us with ash swords?"

Thengel shrugged. "It would cut expenses."

"Indeed." Adan held the blade before him and stared down its length. Two women walking arm in arm past the shop gave them a wide berth. "You don't have to clothe and feed dead soldiers, which we would all soon be when armed with only these."

"I don't know," Thengel replied. "The orcs might die of laughter once they saw you coming."

Adan gave him a sarcastic grin and dropped the sword back on the pile. "If it's all the same to you, my friend," he said, "I prefer steel. "

"Lucky for you we're not here for toys. Come inside."

…

It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the bright sun reflecting off the white city walls to the gentle dimness within the shop. Sturdy wooden shelves lined the walls, crowded with all manner of toys. Soft stuffed dragons, wooden charging lions fitted with wheels, odd puzzles made from iron scraps, and filigree crowns where some of the wares. Thengel ignored these and made for a heavy-set man sitting on a stool beside a workbench at the far end of the room. On the wall above the table, hammers, awls, saws, rolls of sandpaper, and myriad other tools hung. Wood shavings formed a nest around the stool and a crutch leaning against the table. The proprietor was missing a leg from the knee down. When he recognized his patrons, the toymaker reached for his crutch to rise, but Thengel waved him down.

"Tegilbor, you remember Adan?"

"I should hope so, though it's been the better part of twelve years since they dragged me out of Ithilien." He shook hands with Adan. "A poisoned arrow just below the knee, you remember."

"It's always an arrow to the knee." They laughed. Adan gestured toward the door. "I thought those wooden swords out front looked familiar."

Tegilbor beamed. "Aye. All in the handle. I fashioned them after the ones issued to us back when Mormagil was still the Steward's master blacksmith. A work of art, they were. Perfectly balanced and not a weapon I'd be ashamed to wear in Merethrond on a feast day."

"Beautiful," Adan agreed. "How did you go into toy making?"

"I always liked working with wood and we all learned to be handy with a needle and thread out in the wilderness. I can sew a mean-looking dragon, and as it happens, they're very popular at the moment. It was Prince Thengel who gave me the idea. He helped me set up shop. Brought me custom. Once it got around that the Steward's grandson had toys from Tegilbor, it's been all I could do to keep up." He kicked at some of the sawdust under his foot. "Haven't had a moment's peace. I'm not sure I should thank him or blame him!"

"Listen, Tegilbor," Thengel interrupted with a laugh. "Blame me later. Right now I need a book recommendation."

"Of course." Tegilbor pursed his lips, thinking. "And how did the young critic enjoy the last story? Silverbeard it was, I think."

"He said he liked the adventure very much, but he could tell it was written by an adult."

"Oh?"

"I believe he felt disappointed that the hero handed over the map to the grownups and didn't go in search of the treasure by himself."

Tegilbor raised his eyebrows. "I'm falling down on the job, I see. Well, let me think." The toymaker turned to the wall containing nothing but books, scanning over every brightly colored spine. "Do you think he's perhaps ready to move on to biography? Not straight biography, of course. But we have this fictionalized account of Tuor Eladar's early days, which he might enjoy. Conveniently, it's mum about tricky romance business which young boys can't be bothered with just yet."

"What is it called?"

"My Side of Mithrim. It has enough oppressive adults, scrapes, orcs, and narrow escapes to turn a young man's head giddy."

"Illustrations?"

"Only a handful of rather grim woodcuts." Tegilbor held up a finger. "And not a single talking animal. I remember that was a sore point."

Thengel purchased the book and before long they were making their way back up the levels to the Steward's home. Adan was quiet most of that time.

"Everything all right, Adan?" Thengel asked.

"I was just thinking of Tegilbor," he answered. "I lost track of him and quite a few of the other men who were mangled by the enemy over the years. Didn't know you set him up like that. That's decent. It's not easy for 'em to move on sometimes."

Thengel shrugged. "He just needed a leg up." He grimaced. "Literally, in fact."

Adan jabbed his thumb at the parcel tucked under Thengel's arm. "That children's book isn't for Captain Ecthelion?"

Thengel's eyes brightened. "No, this is for his boy. I never visit Ecthelion at home without something in hand."

"Should I have something?"

"No, don't worry. I'm something of the boy's guardian, you see."

"Ah."

When they were again on the sixth level, close to the archives, Thengel stopped outside a grand house protected by a wall and ornate gate. He peered into the courtyard between the bars. "This is the residence for the Princes of Dol Amroth."

"Yes, this is where I brought Lady Morwen yesterday. She seemed to know the place pretty well."

Thengel nodded and continued on. "What was it like at Bar-en-Ferin after we left?"

Adan's expression closed. "Well, I'm not supposed to say."

Thengel gave him a cutting look. "What do you mean?"

"Lady Morwen says I'm not to talk to you about it. Especially not to you."

Thengel felt affronted. "Why in Béma's name not?"

Adan shrugged. "She's embarrassed, I guess. I would be if I had a great bullying cousin like Lord Halmir."

Embarrassed for Thengel to know? He already knew most of it. Didn't she think she could trust him? Absurd.

"At least tell me what you've been up against so I can explain it to Ecthelion," Thengel said gruffly.

Adan gave Thengel a strange look. "I don't see why it should make you angry."

"I'm not angry."

"If you say so." Adan shrugged. "Anyway, the last few days were chaotic. I had my hands full keeping the men in line. Half of them don't care a wit for authority and their superiors were in no better state anyway. They're bored."

Boredom among soldiers never boded well, especially when they were being managed by indolent men like Halmir. Yet another example of the man's stupidity.

"Did Morwen have any help?"

"I helped where I could, but Lord Halmir's patience with me didn't last long. And her man, the scarecrow…"

"Beldir."

"Yes, him. He had an accident a few days ago just as the lady was thinking to come up to Minas Tirith herself. Broke a leg."

"He was to come along with her?"

"Yes."

Thengel laughed dryly. "Of course." Then he asked, "How did it happen that you came? Was it Morwen's idea?"

"I offered. I sometimes talk with the women of the household and so that's how I heard of it. The thought hadn't occurred to Lady Morwen that someone else could accompany her and she wasn't fool enough to come by herself. Truthfully, I think she didn't like the plan at first, because who would be around to quell the lads? But I could see she needed to get on the road."

"Why?"

Adan swallowed hard. "I'm not breaking my promise - not really, because I'm going to tell you something the lady doesn't know herself."

Thengel stopped. "What is it?"

Adan looked around and lowered his voice. "Lord Halmir has ordered some axes. Not the ones we're all carrying about for show. Real, serviceable axes. For trees."

Thengel felt the heat rising in his throat. He gripped Adan's arm. "No."

"Oh, he's ready to force her hand—" Adan shut his mouth.

"What do you mean?"

Adan shrugged. "I don't mind telling you what I know from our end and about Lord Halmir's plans for us, but not all of this is my business. I'm sure if you spoke to the lady yourself, she would be forthcoming."

Forthcoming. And when would he speak to her? This wasn't the country. In Minas Tirith there were rules about visiting single women. He would have to visit Adrahil first and hope for an invitation from Princess Aranel. They would drink tea. Maybe he would be invited to dinner. And then he might be permitted to speak to Morwen alone. The whole rigmarole could take the better part of a week. Would she stay that long with Bar-en-Ferin hanging in the balance?

And then would she deign to confide in him? What had he done to make her want to keep secrets? And, Béma, if she didn't want him involved, why was he so determined?

Because of Guthere. Yes, because of Guthere. He owed her a debt and if he happened to feel genuine concern it only proved that he was capable of fellow feeling.

"Hey, wait up," Adan called. Only then did Thengel realize that he'd stalked onward at a quick pace, leaving his companion in the dust.

…

"What? You're just going to walk in?" Adan said nervously. He eyed the two guards standing sentinel on the steps below. They'd allowed the two men to come this far, but it felt like a trap.

Thengel stalled mid-push, and instead leaned against the front door. He looked puzzled.

"Why not?"

"Well, it's the Steward's house!"

"This was my home for the better part of twenty years, Adan," he said dryly. "If I started ringing the bell now they'd never recover from the shock."

"That's fine for you. I'm just a soldier," Adan grumbled. "Someone with my ugly mug would get arrested for walking in like that. I'll wait out here."

Thengel nodded. "I won't be long."

Adan went to find a comfortable place to sit in the courtyard, preferably with his back to the dead tree. The Steward's guards standing seemed not to see him, which only made him feel more conspicuous.

…

A servant met Thengel at the door.

"Welcome, Prince Thengel. Lord Ecthelion is in his study."

"Thank you, Mallor. Are the Lakemen with him?"

"Not yet, my lord. They are sitting with the Steward."

"Where's the lady of the house?"

The servant led Thengel to the drawing room. Two women were sitting together. He recognized Idhren's companion, a rabbit-like woman, reading aloud from a book while her mistress, a far grander woman sat embroidering a piece of muslin set in a hoop. Niniel broke off mid sentence when the servant admitted Thengel, and closing her book, dipped into a curtsey and left the room without a look at him. He could never tell if his maleness oppressed her or the fact that he wasn't a Gondorian.

Ecthelion's wife rose and put aside her sewing. She moved toward him with a grace that always made everyone in the room look like bumblers. He had known her from his earliest days in Minas Tirith and she looked unchanged. Her black hair fell straight and shining down her back, never out of place, never bound. Her eyes were a blue so light they looked almost like ice in a painting. Not an exact representation, but as soon as you saw them you recognized it.

"Idhren." Thengel dropped the book on a small table as she clasped his hands in her own. They were soft and smooth and smelled of gardenia oil. She allowed him to kiss her cheek. "Sorry to interrupt. Niniel will be put out."

"Nonsense, darling. It will give her voice a break," she said lightly. "Why haven't you come to see me before? You've been home for over a week. I call that very shabby. After all, I've made your sister's acquaintance. You've had ample opportunity."

He grimaced. "Can you forgive me?"

Idhren sighed, withdrawing her hands. "I'll try, dear, but it isn't always in my nature."

Thengel looked around him noting the balance of furniture, the windows, the fireplace, and the paintings. Impeccable, everything looked exactly in place. Some of the pieces were new, he noted. An end table, the armchair under a new painting of Denethor that didn't do justice who how fat the boy had grown. Only the workbag beside Idhren's seat wasn't ornamental. It occurred to him that something was wrong.

"Shouldn't you be up to your ears in planning for the feast? I expected the room to be covered in guest lists and menus."

Idhren's eyes flashed. "Lord no! I've delegated that task to Lady Rian. Now that her daughter is married off to Prince Adrahil she has nothing left to do with her time. And why not? Her husband is Lord Belehir. She will have access to anything she needs – so long as it requires a key." She sighed. "Besides, I have a far greater task."

Thengel looked surprised. "Greater than acting as the Steward's hostess?"

"Yes, and if you can't guess what it is then you're a fool." Her lips curled into a sly smile. "Fortunately, your sister is quite diverting."

"Ah. Yes. She asked for your help finding me a bride." Thengel shuddered. "And you agreed?"

Idhren resumed her place on the sofa and gestured for him to join her. "How could I tell her no? I did manage to lead her down some dead ends though."

"Dead ends?"

Idhren laughed, a low sound deep in her throat. "Lady Iarwen, for one."

Thengel goggled at her. "Lady Iarwen is seventy years old."

"Yes, but she's never been married and she's fabulously rich. Besides, Wynflaed didn't know any better as Iarwen doesn't look a day above fifty. An entire afternoon was wasted and all for you."

Thengel laughed, imagining Wynflaed's frustration. "How could you?"

"Well, I felt I ought to restrain her efforts until I could speak with you myself and learn your feelings on the matter." She studied him coolly. "Your family are in a terrible rush and I never like to be rushed. Besides, you deserve a fighting chance. It's unsportsmanlike to go behind your back, to borrow a phrase from my husband."

He kissed her hands. "What would I do without you?"

"I'm certain I don't know, dear." She pretended to consider the point. "I wonder why you didn't choose a wife yourself before now - not that I mind you leaving all the hard work to us, but it is peculiar for someone who likes to have his own way."

He smiled at her with affection. "Because all the women I fell in love with married my friends," he quipped.

She gave him an arch look. "You mean you let them marry your friends."

"Let them?"

Idhren leaned forward to retrieve her embroidery from atop her workbasket, partially obscuring her face as her dark hair slid over her shoulder. "Perhaps if they had known how you felt they might have chosen differently," she said loftily.

Thengel felt suddenly uncomfortable. "Not you though."

Idhren looked up at him. "Me?"

"You're happy, I mean. You're devoted to Ecthelion and always have been."

"Oh yes." Idhren laughed hollowly. "As happy as a beautiful tapestry in a house that is seldom occupied," she said with only a little acid. Before he could feel really alarmed by her tone, her eyes brightened and she changed the subject. "Tell me about this sister of yours. Am I in danger?"

Thengel leaned back against the couch and studied his boots. "Not if you cooperate. She will figure out that you've been leading her a merry dance, though. I can't answer for her behavior when she does. Shieldmaidens have little scruples."

"Shieldmaidens. What on earth are they?" Idhren stabbed the muslin with her needle, drawing a red thread through the back of the fabric, then bringing it up through the right side again.

"In Rohan women fight alongside the men. She's as much a warrior as Ecthelion."

"I'm not afraid," she said gamely.

"Good. I wouldn't want you to be."

They sat in thoughtful silence for a while as Idhren focused on her pattern. They had known each other so long and so well that the absence of speech never bothered either of them. But Thengel recalled Adan waiting in the courtyard and so he retrieved the gift from the table and made signs of rising from his comfortable seat beside her.

"Is Ecthelion home?" he asked, even though he knew the answer.

"He is. And Denethor too." She glanced up as if seeing them through the ceiling. "What have you brought the boy now?"

Thengel cradled the package in his hand. "Only a book. It's harmless enough."

Idhren shook her head. "You spoil him. He expects presents and sulks when he doesn't get them."

"Ecthelion said you did that."

Idhren sniffed. "Well…his father is hard on him and I do have to come to Denethor's rescue more often than not. Not that the boy appreciates it." She put project down and turned to Thengel. "Do all boys go through this phase of detesting their parents in order to prove that they've grown up?"

"Don't ask me. I was an extreme case."

She arched a delicate eyebrow. "Yes, I'd say that you were. Your poor mother."

Thengel wasn't going to discuss his mother. "Where are they?"

"Where else?" she said as she began to sew again. "Ecthelion's been locked in his _war room_ since those Lakemen arrived. Go on up. I won't bore you."

"Never, Idhren."

"Your sister will be along shortly," she said without taking her eyes off her embroidery. "You'll meet her here if you don't hurry and then you will be beyond my help. I think she wants to go door to door canvassing for eligible women."

Thengel crossed his arms. "About that - you will tell me if she's a bother."

"Oh, I'm very amused. It's nice to feel wanted, so I won't tell her it's useless."

"Useless?"

"Useless." She sighed, knotted her thread, and cut it. "You are too stubborn for your own good, Thengel. Even if we found the perfect woman, you would reject her on the grounds that you hadn't thought of it first."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" she countered. "I know for a fact that you do what you want. But let me warn you, darling, the more stubborn you are the less of a choice you will have. Remember, I am your ally, but it wouldn't hurt for you to help yourself a little."

"I'll keep that in mind, Idhren.

"Do. Now run up and give Denethor his book. He's been locked away with his father all morning and I'm sure we're due for a crisis at any moment. If you divert it, I'll consider us even for the pains I've taken with your sister."

"I'll do my best."

"And send Niniel back in, will you? I don't care for her company much, but as long as she's reading and not trying to think an original thought, I can abide it."

He did not have to look long. Niniel had parked herself on a bench within a little alcove only a few steps down the hallway. She rose stiffly, hugging her book. Then she ducked into the drawing room before Thengel could say boo to her.

…

Thengel didn't bother to knock before letting himself into the study. Ecthelion likely wouldn't hear it anyway. In fact, the captain of Gondor's armies had his back to the door, bending over a table covered in maps. A plump lad of eleven years sat sulking in the corner window looking into the sunken garden behind the house. Thengel felt a sympathetic pang for Denethor, having spent the majority of his first years in Minas Tirith sitting in that same box seat trying to learn about his new home. Idhren hadn't stepped foot into the room since her marriage and therefore the cushions hadn't been changed in over 20 years. By now Denethor's backside should be thoroughly numb.

A heavy tome crushed the boy's lap and had started a steady descent toward the floor. Thengel could tell by the way Denethor's head was hanging that he was half asleep.

The boy's head popped up when the door closed behind Thengel with a heavy click. Thengel just managed to rescue the book from crashing to the floor.

"Uncle Thengel! Oops."

Ecthelion turned his head briefly during the scuffle, but returned his attention to his desk, ignoring them.

"Hello, my boy, what are we studying today?" Thengel turned the book to read the spine. "The Akallabeth. Hmm. Can you tell me what you read?"

Denethor shrugged. "It says that the Númenóreans started to hunt other men like swine. I don't believe it."

"No?"

"Why should they?" the boy asked.

Thengel sat down beside Denethor. "I think the Númenóreans began to think pretty highly of themselves and pretty lowly of others."

"If I were them, I'd prefer to hunt dragons, like the one that destroyed Lake-town. King Bard doesn't know how lucky he was by half. Grandfather says Smaug was the last firedrake in Middle-earth, as far as anyone knows. The Lakemen didn't sound very happy about him, but I think it would've been exciting to see the last dragon."

"Smaug destroyed their homes, my lad, and many of them lost their friends."

Denethor shrugged. "They have all that gold now. They can build whatever they like. It's a pity they killed it."

Thengel smothered a smile. He would have felt exactly the same way when he was a boy. "How so?"

"Well," Denethor droned in that way of his before he started on a long speech, much like his grandfather, Turgon. "Grandfather says that if the orcs come to murder us all in our beds then Rohirrim have to come to our aid."

"That is true, but you've lost me."

"That would take a long time, wouldn't it? Because the beacons would have to be lit and all the soldiers would have to prepare for the journey. And it takes days to ride here. But if we had a dragon we could try to tame it and teach it to gobble up all the orcs and Haradrim if they were stupid enough to attack a country with its own dragon."

"Suppose they got ahold of the dragon themselves?"

Denethor's eyebrows drooped in concentration. "They would have to get through us first, which they haven't managed to do because of Father. And you."

Thengel patted Denethor on the back. "Well, it's an interesting idea, my boy. Smaug seemed beyond training, though. Speaking of dragons," Thengel slipped the book to Denethor. "Give that a read. It should be hair-raising."

Denethor turned the book over in his hands. "What's it about?"

"Tuor the great adventurer."

Denethor wrinkled his nose. "Are there talking animals?"

"None whatever. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to have a word with your father. Run along, will you?"

"Okay."

"He's as fanciful as his mother," Ecthelion muttered once the boy left the room. "All this talk of dragons and giant eagles and skin shifters has turned his head. I can't get him to focus at all on important matters. He just sulks."

"There's time for that," Thengel intervened. "At his age, I'd steal a horse and disappear for whole days when I wanted to avoid my tutor."

Ecthelion raised an eyebrow, which was intersected by a scar he had earned in Ithilien. Thengel stood next to him to study the map too. Small pieces of sea glass were spread over the surface, congregating in key places. Dol Amroth, Pelargir, Minas Tirith, Osgiliath, Ithilien.

"What's this?"

"The Steward has commanded a sweep of Ithilien. He wants to know if more orcs are massing in Morder and where their hidey-holes are on the west side of the mountains. That's all very well, but if we start to poke at their nests we'll have to answer for it. My thought is to pull away Dagnir's company from Pelargir to Osgiliath. Then we would have ready support if a threat should arrive in either direction," Ecthelion explained.

Thengel tapped the image of double sabers below the Anduin. "And if the Haradrim attempt the crossing at Poros again? Can the southern coast afford to wait for troupes from Pelargir and Osgiliath? They would raze Lossarnach first thing to cut off our food supply. No farms, no army."

"The Haradrim have been quiet ever since your uncles licked them at Poros crossing."

"And ships from Umbar? The pirates grow bolder in the spring."

Ecthelion crossed his arms as he considered the question. "Prince Angelimir can contend with the corsairs," he said finally. "It isn't often he allows them past the delta of Anduin anyway. Keeps all the sport for himself in open waters. At least, I hope his son will convince him of that when he arrives there."

"Is Prince Adrahil planning to leave Minas Tirith?" Thengel asked, thinking instantly of Morwen.

"When last I spoke to him, yes. His wife is poorly and no air is better than Dol Amroth air for the invalid." Ecthelion didn't try to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Better air, better soldiers, better everything. Let that be a lesson to you, Thengel. Get an elf in your family tree and you too can be superior to everyone."

Thengel shrugged. "I'm not that ambitious, Ecthelion. Besides, I thought all you needed was Númenórean blood for that." He winked. "I'm just a Northman myself."

Ecthelion scratched the back of his neck, diffusing. "All right, I sound like an ass."

"Yes, but I'll forgive you, at least as long as you promise not to hunt me."

"Are you afraid of being hunted?"

"Only by my sister." He tapped on the map below Minas Tirith. "Now. What about the company from Lossarnach? If they return to the eastern march, then we have no need to lessen the defense of Pelargir. The Haradrim might be quiet now, but it wouldn't take long for them to learn that the defense has slackened in the south."

"We've never used Hardang's company during the planting season," Ecthelion dismissed off hand, "not if we want to eat."

"These aren't men who have gone back to their farms, my friend. I spoke to them myself while I was there. They need something to do besides occupy peaceful orchards."

"Orchards?"

"Orchards."

Ecthelion turned and half-perched on the table. "There's a story in that."

"I'll explain later. I'm telling you now that these men have personally asked me to find a place for them. I've brought Adan with me if you want more details."

Ecthelion considered this for a time, staring into nothing. Then he asked, "Who would lead them now that Hardang's dead?"

"I could."

"You? Don't make me laugh. Thengel, you have other worries. I've been informed not to take advantage of your zeal for Gondor's security."

"Who said so?"

"My father and your uncle both."

Thengel made a noise between a growl and a groan. "How long have they been in league against me?"

"As soon as the Marshal arrived. It's not helping that you've avoided the Steward's chair. Father's put out with you," Ecthelion reached behind him and added beads from a nearby pouch to the pile in in Osgiliath and moved still more to Pelargir. "All right, say we bring a company from the south. Why all the interest in Lossarnach now, by the by?"

"I spent a week with Hardang's family." Then he asked, "You knew Lord Randir?"

Ecthelion looked surprised by the question. "Randir? Of course. Good man. Not a soldier though. Why?"

"I never met him."

"You arrived in Minas Tirith a few years after he quitted the city. He always did lock himself in a hole somewhere to read or write when he did come to town to work for my father. I remember when he married Hirwen. Father was angry to lose him, but it couldn't be helped. It was a terrible shame when he died. I was in Pelargir at the time and didn't get back till he was already buried. His wife died some years ago, but he has a daughter. She must be, I don't know, fifteen or sixteen now?"

"Lady Morwen is a little older than that, Ecthelion. Closer to twenty, I think."

"Twenty?" A smug look spread over Ecthelion's face, which Thengel didn't like. "Met her, did you?"

"Yes. I was her guest after Guthere's injury." He tried to imagine that same tableau playing out, only this time in Idhren's drawing room. Impossible! She would never allow anyone to bleed on her furniture. It still amazed him how Morwen and her household had taken it in stride. He wished better things for them than what Halmir had in store. They deserved better.

"Pretty?"

"Lossarnach?"

"Lady Morwen, you sod."

"Oh. Yes. She is."

"Unmarried?"

Thengel swallowed. Was she? Adan would have told him if Halmir had succeeded in bullying her into a wedding. "I believe so."

Ecthelion gave him a strange look. "You think so? Well, don't tell Idhren. She's rabid to help your sister fix you up. Thick as thieves, those two. Nothing would make her happier than to see you married. Typical woman."

Thengel shook his head. More than once he had been in the confidence of both of his friends and it still surprised him how little they sometimes understood the thoughts and motives of the other. As for himself, he felt relieved that Ecthelion's eyes returned on the map so that his discomfort went unnoticed.

"She is more than fifteen years my junior, Ecthelion."

"No one is safe in these matters. As long as she's a woman and breathing then she's eligible. Why, the fools thought Lady Iarwen a possible match."

Thengel opened his mouth to explain Idhren's rouse, but thought better of it. Ecthelion would hardly find it interesting.

"Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you in Ithilien?" he asked, sounding choked.

Ecthelion straightened up and grinned. It made him look boyish like his son. "I wish I could help you, my friend, but the Powers That Be have already decided your doom. I must obey."

"I should have become a pirate while I had the chance," Thengel grumbled.

"You and me both." Ecthelion shook Thengel's hand. "Look, come back tonight. We're having supper with King Bard's deputies, informal and all that. You should meet them before the feast - especially the Dwarf. He's…tetchy."

Thengel sighed. "If I must."

"You must. Captain's orders. More importantly, Idhren will never forgive you if you don't and I need you to keep her in a good mood. I have to tell her that I'm cutting my leave short."

Thengel grimaced. When did it become his job to keep Ecthelion's family in order? He was learning a lot today about what Idhren may or may not have forgiven him for, but Ecthelion was the least proper person to talk to about that. His head still reeled from the revelation that Idhren might have married him fifteen years ago if he'd asked. Sure, there had been a spark there, but once he knew that Ecthelion was in love with her too, he'd backed down. It would have been impossible anyway. Idhren, queen of Rohan? No. He wasn't in love with her now and hadn't been for years, but the thought still didn't sit comfortably. It was impossible that she would have married Ecthelion while still harboring some secret affection for him. Of course it was.

His fingers itched for his sword and the shades of Ithilien where life was simpler. Harder, but simpler. He was reminded of his original errand.

"I've left Adan waiting too long. He'll be pleased to hear that he can return to Ithilien soon with the rest of his company. First, though, I want you to officially assign him to me."

"What for?"

"I recruited him to help me with a small matter against the wishes of Lord Halmir. I promised Adan protection."

Ecthelion's expression darkened. "That's a bad job, Thengel."

"I know."

"What are the particulars?"

"It's not for me to say. I wouldn't have done it if is wasn't necessary. Now Adan needs a new place."

Ecthelion crossed his arms. "And will this come back to bite me if I agree? I'm not in the mood for a diplomatic flap with Lossarnach."

"I don't think Lord Halmir will want to go against you. Do you know him at all?"

"No. Does he have a military bent?"

"None whatever," Thengel muttered.

"That explains it, then." Ecthelion thought for a while. "Do whatever you like. If Adan wishes to serve you, fine. If he has a taste for blood, send him to Seregon in Osgiliath. Satisfactory?"

Thengel bowed his head. "I'm in your debt."

"Well, who's keeping score?"

"You are."

The skin around Ecthelion's eyes crinkled with humor. "Extending one's friends a little credit is good policy. There will always be a day when you need to call in those favors. Keep that in mind when you're king."

Thengel groaned. "I've had enough of that talk these past weeks. I'm half-tempted to resign."

"Don't you dare," Ecthelion warned. "I've been working on you for twenty years. I don't want to start over on statecraft with some other stiff-necked horse lord. It's bad enough we've this new King Bard and the Dwarf king too, stirring up orcs and dragons and elves and Valar know what else for us to clean up after."

"I wouldn't want to make more work for you," Thengel said wryly.

"Good man."

The bell announced another visitor to the house and the sinking feeling in Thengel's gut informed him that it was probably Wynflaed.

"Better wait a minute to let her settle in with Idhren before you go," Ecthelion advised, reading Thengel's mind. Wynflaed must have become a daily fixture if Ecthelion had noticed her. "Or you could slip out the back and climb the garden wall. It wouldn't be the first time."

Thengel rolled his eyes. "I haven't done that in eighteen years."

In the end, he left by the front door. The sentinels, if they noticed anything, might have observed that his pace was a little quicker than usual.


	22. Old Friends and New

On the day of the feast, Morwen dressed in Aranel's room. She wore a new gown beneath one of Aranel's robes. It was deeper than saffron and made of a material so thin that Morwen had mistaken it for a slip, at first. The sheer overdress was studded over in silver flowers that reminded her of the little white cenedril growing in Imloth Melui. Her cousin's wife had to lend her everything else, since a feast had not entered into her plans when she decided to leave Lossarnach. Many of Aranel's things had to be unpacked as well and her trunks lined one wall of her dressing room.

Morwen paced the floor while she waited for Aranel to finish dressing. She felt time passing too slowly around her and her stomach squeezed uneasily. Meeting Steward Turgon was of utmost importance and the closer to the event the more her patience evaporated. She tried to remember what she could about the man, but it had been years since she had seen either the Steward or his son for herself. Her last contact with Lord Turgon had been a lengthy note expressing his sorrow on the passing of her father.

She reviewed what she would do. Explain the facts, such as they were. Then she would trust to his long friendship with Randir.

"Morwen, you're making me nervous. Why don't you find some shoes to wear? They should be in the trunk near the door," Aranel said. She sat in a chair facing the mirror while Dineth arranged her hair. She could see Morwen's profile reflected in the glass.

Morwen stood in front of the trunk and frowned. "Everything will have to be repacked," she said. "I'm sorry I've delayed your trip."

"Don't be. It's given me a few more days to say goodbye to Minas Tirith." She lowered her voice. "I'd never admit it to Adrahil, but I was feeling sort of lonesome not knowing when we would return next."

"Miss Minas Tirith?"

Aranel smiled at Morwen's skeptical expression. "I'm not like Adrahil. He spent his whole life traveling back and forth between Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith. So he feels at home in both cities. But I grew up here and I shall miss Minas Tirith very much once we're gone. Adrahil knows that. It's the reason why he arranged to stay here for our first year. It was a nice thought, but I think we'll both relax once we're in Belfalas."

"But you sound like you don't want to go."

"Oh, I do, especially since Mother has been underfoot so much."

Morwen ducked her head to hide her expression. Adrahil's complaint to her on the day she turned up on their doorstep had not been unfounded, she had discovered. Lady Rían treated the Prince's home as her second and the woman had a tendency to raise hackles wherever she went. Morwen winced, recalling the string of harried shopkeepers they'd left behind in Lady Rían's wake.

"I suppose you'll miss her," Morwen added a little too late.

Aranel laughed dryly as if she could read Morwen's mind on the subject. "It will be a relief not having to mediate between my mother and my husband, but I know that I'll be homesick. Who knows how much?" Aranel frowned, but then rallied. She reached behind her to pat her maid on the arm. "Fortunately, I'll have Dineth with me."

Dineth nodded. "Yes, my lady — and the Prince. You won't have time to feel sorry for yourself between us."

"Perhaps you can come back often." Morwen cast a wondering eye over all the trunks. It wouldn't be a small feat to move the Princess. These few trunks only held Aranel's personal items. The Gwaelin, Adrahil's ship, waited on the Harlond, groaning with all the other trunks that contained wedding gifts and household items. That still didn't include the presents they had received that would stay in the Minas Tirith house. She wouldn't have credited it before, but weddings were a lucrative transaction if Adrahil and Aranel were anything to go by.

_No wonder Halmir had thought of it! _The thought tasted like bile.

"Maybe. Adrahil's mother is looking forward to my help running the household. There will be so much to do I doubt I could come away often."

"Delegate the tasks so you can travel between Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith as often as you like. I certainly don't do everything myself."

Aranel gave Morwen's reflection in the mirror a penetrating look, as if she knew better. What tales had Adrahil told her?

"I don't intend to, but if I keep disappearing from Dol Amroth people will begin to question my loyalty to Adrahil and my commitment to the fief. I chose this life with my eyes open and now I have to live it."

Morwen tightened the sash on the robe. "But why did you marry Adrahil if it means you'll be unhappy?"

Dineth, who was also watching from the mirror, cringed, laid down the brush, and turned to Morwen to loosen the knot. "You'll wrinkle the dress, my lady," she whispered.

"Oh, sorry," Morwen mumbled.

"Homesickness isn't the same as unhappiness, Morwen. I married Adrahil because I fell in love, and more often than not love means giving a few things up. Your father gave up Minas Tirith, too, didn't he?"

Aranel closed her eyes as Dineth began to apply an oil to her hair that smelled faintly of oranges. Then she twisted Aranel's hair and anchored with combs at the nape of her neck.

Morwen wrinkled her nose. "I hardly think leaving Minas Tirith for Lossarnach counts as a sacrifice."

Aranel smiled knowingly. She gave her hair a quick review and then waved Dineth away. Rising, she stood beside Morwen.

"Here, sit down so Dineth can arrange your hair."

Morwen allowed herself to be led away from the trunk, submitting to Dineth. Her muscles felt tense from prolonged delay, but before she could climb the citadel gate tunnel toward Merethrond, there were necessary steps.

"How do you want it, my lady?" Dineth asked.

Morwen looked to Aranel for help.

"I think a natural look will suit Morwen best. You have a nice wave, Morwen."

"Loose it is," Dineth answered. "And some argon to smooth the flyaways. It'll be a humid in the great hall."

Flyaways. If only Gildis could see her now! Although, she had Gildis to thank that this process was far less painful than it had been at Lossemeren. Aranel had even complimented the fine arch of her eyebrows the day before, which made Morwen nearly hug herself. Poor Gildis.

Aranel took Morwen's place at the trunk. She considered, reached into the controlled chaos within, and pulled out gold slippers.

"My mother will be disappointed you didn't choose the green gown she liked. That's always very popular this time of year. These gold slippers would have gone well with them. But between green and yellow, you chose best. You needed a warm color." She found another pair of delicate white silk. "Here, try these."

Morwen held the white slippers to the fabric around her waist. "Green and yellow are the first colors of spring and the last colors of summer," Morwen mused. "Green grass. Yellow flowers."

"It's a natural combination. But I think…no." She tossed the white pair back in and dug around until she found a silver pair. "Here. These will go well with the silver embroidery on your gown."

Morwen wiggled her toes experimentally in the new slippers, and said, "I couldn't really tell. How did you decide?"

"Practice. It's not my first state function."

"Oh. I've never been to anything but my blossom festival." She winced as Dineth began to comb her hair.

"Did I hurt you, my lady?" Dineth asked.

Morwen gave her an apologetic smile. "No, but I thought you were going to."

Aranel sat in the chair next to the dressing table, surveying Dineth's work. Morwen felt herself relax when no snarls reared their ugly heads. Who knew that having her hair brushed by someone else could feel so nice? She realized that Gildis might have been using the brush to communicate her frustration. Maybe she would send Ioneth to Dol Amroth to learn a few things from Dineth. On second thought, the girl would probably run off with the first fisherman to wink at her.

Morwen felt a pang of longing in her chest. She missed all of them, even silly Ioneth and clumsy Gundor!

"You'll enjoy tonight. We'll make sure of it," Aranel said, mistaking the forlorn expression on Morwen's face. "Adrahil and I will take care of everything. We'll find you dance partners and when you're tired of dancing, there's the banquet. When you're tired of the banquet, there's the gardens – although you didn't here that from me."

"Gardens?" Morwen felt her heart lift. She missed being surrounded by green! "I didn't know there were any in the citadel."

"You can't have a feast hall without gardens to help couples disappear."

Morwen sighed. "I'm really only going for one reason, Aranel, which is—"

"To see Prince Thengel again?" Aranel quipped, winking at Dineth.

Morwen gaped at Aranel, but Dineth snorted softly.

Aranel tapped the vanity counter. "You've kept mum on the subject and I am dying to know what you think of him. He's so rarely in Minas Tirith these days and he only travels wherever Ecthelion tells him to. Nobody ever gets him as a guest. Yet, from what I've gathered via my sources, he stayed at Bar-en-Ferin for at least a week."

"Your sources?" Morwen's fingers closed around the neck of the dressing gown, feeling surrounded by Aranel's spies.

Aranel laughed. "Don't look so prim. I'm teasing."

"Aranel, there's very little to tell you," Morwen told her gravely. "It's not as if I invited him. He didn't mean to…"

"Fine, keep your secrets. I know you only want to see the Steward. Still, it's a celebration. You have to dance and enjoy yourself. I thought, well, you have at least one acquaintance…"

"Tell me about Steward Turgon," Morwen interrupted. "My memory is very dim."

Aranel gave her a look that suggested Morwen was off the hook now, but later there would be a reckoning.

"How to describe the Steward? Hmm." Aranel tapped her lips. "He's a grave man, terse at times. My father would describe him as peppery. He is very learned and his gaze is far-reaching, they say."

Morwen nodded. "I remember my father saying that Ecthelion was a man of action, but that Turgon was a man of thought."

"He is both," said Adrahil, who materialized out of nowhere to lean on the doorframe between his dressing room and Aranel's. "He thinks and therefore others act, which is sort of the same thing."

Aranel swiveled around to smile at her husband, who looked resplendent in silver that looked well with Aranel's lapis gown.

"Are you ready so soon?" Morwen asked.

Adrahil crossed the room to give Aranel a kiss. "I've been ready since dinner."

"All the Prince had to do was change his tunic and make sure his boots were clean," Dineth quipped.

"True. But no one will care what I look like, especially when my wife and cousin are in the room." He turned to Morwen. "Are you pleased with the gown?"

Morwen gently pinched the gauzy fabric between her fingers and watched it spill away like water.

"The only thing I regret," Morwen mused, "is that Halmir's right."

Aranel's expression clouded. "About what?"

Morwen made a sour face. "That yellow suits me."

Aranel waved the thought away. "As if he had anything to do with your complexion."

"I know."

"Think of it as representing the gold banner of Lossarnach," Adrahil said. "And you look beautiful. Aranel told me you would and she is never wrong."

"Not often," Aranel laughed. "At least where dresses are concerned."

Leave it to Adrahil to turn a compliment to Morwen into a compliment to his bride. Morwen didn't mind really. It was better than Halmir's habit of using compliments as backhanded insults. Besides, she had grown to like Aranel very much during the three days she had spent with them so far and it was true that she had excellent taste. The dress fit Morwen like a…well, it fit her. The cut fit her in all the right places and little resembled the styles that were popular when Hirwen was Morwen's age. She hadn't worn a dress that hadn't first belonged to her mother since Valar knows when. They had been taken in and taken up until she turned thirteen and began to surpass her mother in height, in which case Gildis became adept at letting dresses down.

"Yes," she said with a trace of wonder in her voice. "I'm very surprised it came together so quickly. I didn't think it was possible."

Aranel smirked. "Mother and I have connections."

"And the currency of persuasion," Adrahil added dryly.

Aranel tipped her head to the side. "And what currency is that?"

"Coin. What else? Or so says my ledger." He winked. "I think we'll find a few dressmakers in the city who were lately able to enjoy an early retirement thanks to three noble patronesses."

"All for the greater good, I assure you." Aranel gave his arm a squeeze. "We have to look our best for the Steward and his friends, old and new."

Adrahil's eyebrows disappeared nearly into his hairline. "Ah, yes."

Morwen feigned interest in the bottle of argon and orange blossom oil that Dineth had used on her hair. There was an undercurrent to the conversation that Morwen understood perfectly well and yet she wondered how she could have misrepresented the situation of the last few weeks to her cousins to make them speculate as they were doing. After all, despite Aranel's many hints, she had held her tongue about her guest. If she wouldn't tell them anything, how could they assume anything?

…

"Why are you waiting out here?"

Thengel looked up at Wynflaed from where he sat under the one tree in the sorry looking garden in the front of his house. Weeds were winning the land war and some were making headway in the cracked pavers. Shabby. Even the tree looked scruffy. Which ancient founder of this house had chosen a dirty birch shedding catkins all over the place? He'd come to enjoy a few minutes of solitude before the feast and the cooling air, but had found the space less inviting than he realized.

He shrugged. "The garden needs an overhaul."

His sister snorted. "You only noticed now?"

Wynflaed surprised him by sitting down in the empty space next to him. She had dressed in the traditional white of the women of the House of Eorl and something in her manner seemed to dare him to take exception to it.

"I'm a busy man, believe it or not." Then he said, "You look nice."

"Hmph."

The front doors opened and Oswin trundled down the front steps in a blaze of green and gold pomp with Eriston in tow. The servant gave Thengel a resigned look. His uncle's beard looked trimmed and less flyaway and his braids were freshly set. Eriston had worked something of a miracle on Oswin. It was probably time to discuss giving the poor man a bump in his wages.

Unfortunately, the small detail of his uncle's matching tunic made Thengel grimace. He understood what they were doing now, but didn't find the show of solidarity necessary.

Eriston had foisted Thengel into a mysterious green tunic with gold knotwork on the sleeves, collar and hem, which he had never laid eyes on before. He suspected Oswin and Wynflaed had something to do with its appearance in his wardrobe, but now he knew for sure. He preferred to wear the customary black and silver of the Tower of Guard for these functions, but that outfit was nowhere to be found. He knew all too well that Wynflaed had managed to press Eriston into service, irresistible force that she was.

"Why am I being rolled out of the house at this hour? I was told this _béorscipe_ didn't start till long after sundown."

Thengel got up and brushed off whatever catkins might have joined him. "The sun is almost spent, Uncle, and I promised Ecthelion to come as early as possible."

Wynflaed tossed her loose hair over her shoulder and seemed to tense for battle as she rose. "Forward, then."

When Thengel offered her his arm, she eyed it warily.

"What?" she asked, "is something wrong with your sleeve?"

"It's considered courteous in Gondor to offer a lady one's arm," he answered with exaggerated patience.

Wynflaed rolled her eyes. "And shame myself in front of the warriors? No."

Thengel lowered his arm. "Suit yourself."

Oswin cleared his throat causing Wynflaed to pull a face. As they passed through his gate, he could see some inner windmill slowly churning in her mind. Surreptisiously she slipped her arm through his.

"Don't tell me you just sprained your ankle," he muttered.

"If these women think that hobbling along with a perfectly healthy woman on your arm is some mark of virtue, then we can't afford to have you lose face. They need to think you're agreeable."

"Despite the truth, you mean?"

She shrugged.

They didn't speak as they were drawn into the tide of people wending their way toward the seventh circle. At the citadel gate, the guards recognized Thengel and held back the other pedestrians so they could pass through the tunnel with better ease.

Thengel led Wynflaed and Oswin through the tunnel that ended at the Court of the Fountain. As they neared the fountain, Thengel saw that someone had festooned the crippled tree with silver ribbon to mask the gloom and decay. Candles floated on little silver boats in the fountain, their light catching on the ribbons and casting a soft shimmer like little stars over the water. Thengel stopped to observe it.

Oswin shook his head. "There's a light in the house, but no master."

"No," Thengel agreed, "but servants still faithfully care for house."

Wynflaed looked askance at her brother and uncle. "All I see is a fancy trough. Let's go."

Beyond the tree, the white spike of stone that formed the Tower of Ecthelion loomed over them. Revelers who had not merited an invitation to the feast in Merethrond crowded the courtyard and looked like so many colorful flowers beneath the white trunk of a grand tree. Their laughter echoed against the high battlements and buildings of the seventh circle, enjoying the warm spring evening and the free eatables and music provided to the public by the Steward whenever there was a closed function. Children cut across Thengel's path flailing streamers he recognized from Tegilbor's shop.

The king's house lay beyond the Tower. Thengel led them to the right, following in the wake of the Steward's guests. The doors of Merethrond were opened wide and the strength of many lights glowed from within, pooling out into the courtyard. Servants waited at the door to check names against a long list of guests. When they arrived at the foot of the stairs leading down into the great hall, they didn't wait for the herald to appear to announce them. Their bright hair and pale complexions did that for them.

It looked like all of Minas Tirith had also promised Ecthelion to arrive early. With some effort, Thengel found him standing apart with the deputies from Esgaroth, who looked coldly on the bustle of servants making last minute alterations under the direction of Lady Rían. His companions looked like men who had resigned themselves to the constant awe-inducing splendor of Gondor's first city. Thengel had fellow feeling for them. He could remember clearly his own reaction to the opulence before him, without one of Teitharion's paintings to remind him. Only the Dwarf seemed immune to amazement, perhaps owing to his residence in the courts of the Lonely Mountain and the cultural memory of Moria.

Ecthelion looked relieved to see him.

"Friends, here at last is Prince Thengel. Ah, Marshal Oswin is known to you, but I do not think you have yet met Thengel's delightful sister, Lady Wynflaed, a shieldmaiden of the Mark of Rohan."

Delightful?

They bowed. Thengel shook hands with a grizzled man maybe twenty years older than himself. He was Thengel's own height, which meant that Ecthelion towered over both of them. And his hair had more or less tipped the balance on the side of gray, while his beard was curiously deep rusty color with only a few shots of gray near his ears.

"Lady Wynflaed, this is Egil," Ecthelion said. "And this young man is his nephew Rurik. "

Rurik had black hair and the same rusty-red beard, but looked about the same age as Thengel. Both men had been members of the last defense of Lake-town under Bard. Now they served as the king's lieutenants while the newly restored kingdom of Esgaroth found its legs.

"And this is Frár, deputy to Dain, King Under the Mountain."

The Dwarf bowed a second time. "At your service, my lady."

Wynflaed surveyed them all with unveiled interest. It was no secret that she felt cheated out of a battle and that the petty skirmishes with orcs and Dunlendings on their borders had grown tiresome. Her sword arm ached for better sport. She regarded Frár.

"Were you with Oakenshield's party?" she asked.

Frár's eyes kindled. "No, madam. I hail from the Iron Hills and have served King Dain all my life."

"Do you find Minas Tirith to your liking?"

Frár's beard twitched. "Interesting masonry. I would have made a few choices differently — as a professional, you understand."

"Then is the city not what you expected?" Ecthelion asked, piqued.

"My people do not travel so far south in these days of doubt, but the rumor of the craftsmanship of the Númenóreans has long been held in memory. By and large, it exceeds the stories."

That sounded generous. Thengel had nothing to say about the masonry that would interest a Dwarf, much less himself. He let his attention wander over the hall.

"Where is Idhren?" he murmured to Ecthelion.

"Damned if I know," he groused. "By the way, make sure you save her a dance, will you? She's always happier when you're around."

Thengel grunted. "Only because when I'm around it usually means you're around too."

"Well she's in a foul mood tonight and I only made it worse. She and Belehir's wife are at each other's throats like two cats in an alley. I told her if she didn't like Lady Rían's choices, she ought to have planned this thing herself and save me the earful I'm going to get from Lord Belehir."

"Yes, he did say that," Idhren drawled from somewhere behind them.

They turned on their heels like guilty children, but Idhren had already dismissed them. Smiling beguilingly to the guests of honor, they stood stupefied in her presence. Even Oswin looked bemused. Her hair was arranged in a dark crown around her head, adorned with combs of gold flowers. She wore a gown of deceptively meek lavender that pooled and folded around her like a waterfall.

"Rurik, I'm so pleased to see that you've met Lady Wynflaed," she said, holding out a hand to each of them.

Rurik swallowed hard. "Yes, Lady Idhren?"

"Wynflaed, do you..eh…what's it called again, Rurik? That charming dance you told me about?"

"Jigging, my lady," he said gravely.

"Jigging. Yes." Idhren's eyes sparkled with humor. "I've arranged for the dancing to open with one of yours from back home - at least, it's as close as I could get according to your description. The players seem to know what to do. Lady Rían's program had to be entirely rearranged, but that is neither here nor there. Wynflaed, my love, I'm sure Rurik couldn't ask for a more charming partner to…jig with."

Rurik bowed at the waist. Thengel had the unnerving experience of seeing his sister, though slab-faced and inscrutable, blush. Whatever tune Idhren had decided to play, these people were going to dance to it, quite literally.

"Now, gentlemen, I hope you won't mind if I steal Prince Thengel away."

Ecthelion's eyes rounded up to the ceiling. "You know very well they won't," he muttered.

Idhren gave him an arch smile, then led Thengel away to the foot of the stairs where they were hidden in the crowd.

"Now, darling, I've done my best by you and found out the names of some likely partners ahead of time. Let me do the negotiating."

Thengel frowned. "Oh?"

"Yes. My altruism ends at one point," she warned. "You and I are to open the dance."

"Shouldn't that honor belong to one of Turgon's guests?" Or, I don't know, Ecthelion, he thought.

Idhren pretended to smooth away a loose strand of hair. "Egil or Frár, you mean?"

"I do."

"No, dear. Frár has asked to be excluded from the pleasure of dancing, the reason being rather obvious. As for Egil, I've saved that honor for Lady Rían." Her eyes narrowed. "She could use a _jig_."

"You can't let her have all the honors."

"I can if it means having my way elsewhere," Idhren reflected. Then she pressed a finger into Thengel's chest. "And don't you interfere."

He held his hands up. "I won't. You know me. I'm perfectly satisfied to be led by you."

She smiled. "Good."

Then he said, "What about Ecthelion?"

Her smile remained fixed, but it began to stale. "He's keeping Frár company since his father won't be here tonight."

"No? What's the matter with Turgon?"

"Oh, gout? Rheumatism? Whatever it is that ails old men. I think he just isn't in the mood for people and since he's the Steward, who's going to make him?"

"So he's up in his tower all by himself?"

"Quite comfortable, but not by himself."

"Oh?"

"If he isn't going to be a good host here, we've sent Denethor to keep him company. It felt like the right sort of penance. A grumpy old man and his moody grandson." Idhren laughed. "You know, that was Ecthelion's idea. He can be brilliant in more than military matters when he exerts himself."

"I think you should dance with him, Idhren."

Idhren smiled and greeted a familiar couple. She murmured, "I will once I've made him properly jealous."

He gave her a stern look. "Jealous?"

"Shh. It's his punishment for running off to Ithilien so soon."

Thengel winced. "He told you that, did he?"

"As if I couldn't tell," she huffed, frowning for the first time. "And shame on you for letting him keep it a secret. You know, I wish someone would teach him how to delegate - or else shoot him in the knee. Then at least I'd have him home for more than two months together. Denethor needs his father to show him how to grow up."

"Have you told Ecthelion that?" he asked gently.

"More than once. Next I shall threaten to send the boy to Ithilien with him." She grabbed Thengel's arm. "Oh lord, here comes Rían. She's going to start barking about the changes I made to the music. Let's take our places on the floor before she catches us."

…

Morwen's first impression of the great hall of Merethrond was of the inside of a soup tureen. The humid air from the crush of people below made her dress stick to her back while they waited at the top of the stairs. It was odd to gather everyone inside, she thought. She was more used to dancing out of doors in the unrestricted air with nothing more than the valley walls hemming them in.

Adrahil and Aranel had gotten ahead of her in the press. She had to duck around a family of many daughters to take her place behind them on the landing. Then an unfamiliar voice echoed her name from the staircase into the cavernous space and a sudden self-consciousness possessed her.

Most of the eyes that turned their way were attracted by the names of the Prince and Princess of Dol Amroth rather than by the obscure young woman in their charge. But the exposure to so many unknown people at once felt new to Morwen and she stood, legs paralyzed, on the top step. She kneaded her fingers together without thinking.

…

"Lord Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, Lady Aranel, Princess of Dol Amroth. Lady Morwen of Lossarnach."

Thengel broke Idhren's grip and swiveled around toward the staircase as those names seemed to strike him in the chest. That she would be here tonight had not entered his mind. But there Morwen stood, tall and fair and gray-eyed. Fresh and slim like a lily from the south.

Something seemed wrong, though. She wasn't sailing down the steps with the self-possession of the lady of Imloth Melui that he had come to know, but seemed to shrink back. He recognized the symptom of distress from Lossemeren.

"Oh, I thought the Prince and Princess were on their way to Dol Amroth," he heard Idhren say. "Very handsome couple, though her mother is such a pain. Look."

But he only saw Morwen. He held his breath for her, hating so many people seeing her discomfited.

Unclasp your hands, he willed.

And then, Béma, she did!

Thengel breathed. He stepped toward her, feeling gratified, like something had opened in his chest to take her in. When he first saw her in Bar-en-Ferin, he hadn't known about the flesh and blood woman beneath the imperious plate she wore. He could tell now, see the steps in the way she donned her armor. Shoulders back, arms loose by her side, the upward tilt of her chin, eyes sharp. Centered, she dared others to flow around her the way a stream is parted by a solid rock. She descended into the fray and he moved to meet her.

Idhren's hand materialized on his arm, holding him like an anchor. "Come along. The guests will stampede if the dancing doesn't begin soon."

"Can't it wait a moment?"

Hurt flashed through Idhren's eyes but disappeared in an instant. She looked around but didn't see anyone of interest. "Why, am I interrupting a tryst?" she asked dryly.

"No," he grumbled.

"Then come. You did say you were satisfied to be led by me."

Unable to break his promise to his friend, he allowed her to lead him away. He looked back, but quickly lost sight of Morwen in the crowd gathering around the Prince and Princess of Dol Amroth.

…

The onlooking guests scattered parted like startled geese around a collie as Lady Rían charged toward her daughter. Morwen braced herself as soon as the older woman opened to mouth.

"You're here at last!"

Aranel kissed her mother's flushed cheek. "We're earlier than usual, Mother. Where's Father?"

"Skulking somewhere, leaving me to defend myself against treacherous women," Lady Rían sniffed. "Aranel, I'm ruined. Completely ruined."

"Ruined, Mother?"

"Lord Turgon decided to stay home tonight. Pains in his legs, he says. I've never been more slighted in my life."

"Lord Turgon isn't here?" Morwen asked, crestfallen.

"No, child," Lady Rían replied, looking down her nose at Morwen, whom she had forgotten about.

Another day wasted with no progress and no plan. What was she doing in Minas Tirith? The back of her eyes prickled as frustration welled up from within. She couldn't afford to waste time, not when her instincts told her that Halmir would use her absence to create mischief. Leaving home had been a poor move and she tasted bitter regret on her tongue.

Oblivious to the distress she dished out, Lady Rían droned on. "After all the effort I've put in to this evening when his daughter-in-law couldn't be bothered, I expected better treatment. A little gratitude goes a long way."

"No one will blame you for Steward Turgon's absence, Mother" Morwen heard Aranel murmur Both of her cousins were giving her worried glances.

"If only that were all. Now Lady Idhren has decided to open the dance with Prince Thengel and leave all the dirty work to me." Lady Rían jerked her shoulders like a turkey ruffling its feathers. "I have the dubious honor of opening the dance with that scruffy old Egil from Lake-town. I was hoping to fob him off on Lady Idhren. And then she changed the music! I swear—

"Mother, please remember where you are."

Lady Rían harrumphed. "I don't see why I should have suffer being dragged around the room like a bolster simply because my husband is the Keeper of the Keys."

Morwen's heart skipped a beat. Prince Thengel. Her eyes instinctively swept the room for him, but with the crowd of recently arriving guests bottling up at the foot of the stairs to observe the fuss, she couldn't find him. Without thinking, Morwen began to pleat her skirt between her fingers.

Lady Rían noticed the abuse and pursed her lips. "Ah, that's the dress you decided on for her, Aranel? I thought you were considering the green one?"

Morwen's attention snapped back to Lady Rían. "I chose this, actually."

"Oh?" she sniffed. "Well. Good for you for carrying it off. I always look like a corpse in yellow. Dreadful thing."

"You could hardly blame that on the color," Morwen observed quietly.

Beside her, Adrahil coughed. "Er, we better present ourselves to Lord Ecthelion and his guests."

Lady Rían drew herself up to her full but insubstantial height, like a martyr greeting the flames. "Yes, it is time to do my duty in the name of the White Tree and fetch that Egil fellow. If tonight's entertainment doesn't result in diplomatic success with Esgaroth, it _won't_ be my fault."

…

The musicians were tuning their instruments, but the guests had taken their cue from Lady Idhren and were filling the remaining corners of the open floor. Thengel waited with Idhren at the top of the floor when a curious sight caused him to question his senses.

"So, that's Rurik leading my sister to the dance," Thengel observed. "He really managed it."

"Why, I think it is," Idhren replied airily.

"How on earth did you do it?"

"I might have hinted to Rurik beforehand and I might have hinted to Wynflaed that it would be worth her while if she kept out of my way tonight."

Thengel tried to catch Wynflaed's eye, but his sister stubbornly stared at Rurik's hairline.

"Why would you inflict that on the king's deputies?" he asked. "I thought they were on a peaceful mission."

Idhren gently swatted his arm. "Hush. You're not very gallant toward Wynflaed. Anyway, I had an inkling, that's all. Did you know that Ecthelion and she have become bosom friends?"

"Bosom friends?"

She waved her hand vaguely in the air. "Or whatever you want to call it. I couldn't get him to leave the war room these days even if I stood on a table without any clothes on. He visits her at the sparing grounds."

"Are you…"

"I didn't believe it at first," she went on, "I sent Niniel down after them and sure enough, they were hacking away at each other with real swords! The arms master said they refused the wooden practice ones. And she doesn't relent. Clearly nobody told her you aren't supposed to dice up the future Steward."

"Are you jealous that he's spending time with her?"

She snorted, surprising him. "Jealous? She isn't sleeping with him, Thengel. If she wants to whack him with a sword, she has my blessing. It saves me a lot of trouble. She cut him pretty badly on the arm once when you were in Lossarnach. You know he was so thrilled he came home and paid my embroidery a compliment. He's never noticed before." She continued, "that's when it occurred to me - if she hit it off with Ecthelion, she won't care a jot for most of the men here. They're too polished. But Rurik is one of those crusty wilderland types. And I was right. It should keep her distracted all night so you won't have any trouble with her."

Thengel hugged her. "Idhren, you're an angel."

"I know."

"I never knew you were a consummate strategist."

She looked smug. "I married the Steward's only son, didn't I?"

"But that was love."

The musicians struck the first notes of the song Idhren had chosen for Rurik. She turned Thengel to face her and placed her hand in his.

"Oh, child," she sighed. "Love needs a little push sometimes. Now jig."

…

While Aranel charmed Egil and smoothed her mother's ruffled feathers in an attempt to edge them toward the dance, Lord Ecthelion bowed over Morwen's hand. She tried not to stare at the marvelous scar over his eye, which made him look more than a little dangerous.

Which, she realized, as the captain of the Tower of Guard, he was. And this was Prince Thengel's best friend.

"So," he said, "you're the woman who harbored Prince Thengel. No wonder he took his time returning home."

Morwen felt heat rising along her throat. "I was told his uncle had more to do with that," she said gravely.

The captain grinned. "You know something about that, do you? Pity you just missed Marshal Oswin. He and Frár have gone to keep my father company in the Tower."

"Frár is the Dwarf delegate from the Lonely Mountain," Adrahil added. "We're sorry we won't have the pleasure of meeting Steward Turgon again, Captain. He and Morwen's father were good friends."

Lord Ecthelion bowed his head. "So they were."

Aranel joined them after seeing her mother off. "Captain, there is some bad blood between our families tonight. Perhaps you and I can heal the breach?" She held out her hand.

"With pleasure, Princess, seeing as my remaining charges are in good hands. Excuse me, Lady Morwen."

With a bow, Ecthelion followed Aranel onto the dance floor.

Adrahil and Morwen watched them go with similar looks of bemused admiration. Morwen wondered how a person raised by Lady Rían could learn to take a situation in hand with such elegance.

"Well, everyone's been organized except for us." Adrahil smiled down at her. "Look, I want you to forget what's going on at home and enjoy yourself. Aranel wants so badly for you to have a good time. She's going to worry about you now that Turgon hasn't come. With her recent illness, I'd hate for her evening to be spoiled."

"Well, for Aranel's sake, then," she agreed with only a hint of a crisp edge in her tone.

"Yes, for Aranel's sake." Then he said. "Now we'd better find you a partner. Do you know anyone here besides Prince Thengel?"

"I imagine some of Father's old friends are around." She wasn't certain if any of them could still walk without a prop, though.

Adrahil pulled a face. "That won't do. Let's muck around till I find one of my friends. It'll be easier once we get a few introductions out of the way."

Morwen laughed. "Why don't you just write up a letter of introduction for me to pass around?"

He tried to imitate one of Prince Angelimir's stern expressions. "Introductions are necessary formality, Morwen. And if we don't have formalities, what do we have?"

"Natural behavior?"

Adrahil shook his head with mock severity. "That would never do." Then his face lightened up. "Ah, just the fish we need. Bait the hook, Morwen."

"What are you talking about?"

"Ugh. Smile, for star's sake."

"Oh."

A handsome man in a deep red tunic approached them. His hair cascaded down his back in heavy curls that reminded her of Halmir, until she squashed the comparison - for Aranel's sake. He shook hands with Adrahil.

"Hullo, I didn't know you were still in Minas Tirith. Didn't I hear you were off to Dol Amroth?"

"We were delayed. By happy chance, my cousin has come to us." Adrahil nudged Morwen forward.

The man smiled at Morwen politely and his dark eyes caught her attention. "Would you do me the honor of introducing me?"

Adrahil inclined his head. "Morwen, this is Lord Daeron, kinsman to Lord Drambor of Lebennin. Daeron, Lady Morwen of Lossarnach."

"Lossarnach! I call that providential. You and I are nearly neighbors." Daeron reached for her hand and bowed over it. "I can see which fief keeps the most beautiful flowers for itself."

Morwen cringed at the overly honeyed expression, but Adrahil looked pleased at a job well done. She could read his mind and knew what he had planned. The musicians were playing a lively tune and dancers swirled around the floor. She thought she caught a glimpse of gold hair. Her heart leapt again, which only sent a responding thrill of annoyance through her. Her feelings were hurt and she needed to remember that!

"If it wouldn't displease you, my lady, would you honor me with a dance?"

Morwen blinked stupidly, as her attention returned closer to home. That was what she disliked about Minas Tirith. This young man knew very well that she had no polite way to refuse whether she liked it or not without offending her hosts and disappointing Adrahil.

"Thank you, Lord Daeron. I will."

Adrahil beamed. "Splendid. You two have a lot in common. Daeron here's an enthusiast for poetry." He laughed at a joke only he understood.

Morwen gave Adrahil an alarmed look. What was she supposed to do with that? Satisfied that he had done his duty, Adrahil disappeared to find a chair where he could sit with a glass of wine and admire his wife from afar.

"Your cousin misrepresents me," Lord Daeron told her with a self-effacing expression. "I am not very enthusiastic about poetry in general, but I do know what I like." His smile made her wonder if he was still talking about poetry. "Here, let's step closer to the dance and see if we can't jump in."

She allowed him to lead her through the onlookers until they were at the edge of the floor. The lively current of the dance swept Prince Thengel right in front of her. In his arms he held a tall, elegant woman. Morwen only saw her profile. Her eyes met his for a brief but laden moment, and then he was gone, lost in the sea of bodies.

Blue eyes, she thought. Why had she never noticed how clear they were before? Morwen must have gripped Daeron's hand quite hard for he winced.

"Are you well, Lady Morwen?"

She took a deep breath. "Oh, yes. I just saw someone that I knew in Lossarnach."

"Ah," said Daeron slowly, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of this so-called person, "Which part of that fief do you call home?"

"I live in Imloth Melui," she said dully.

His eyes brightened. "What a charming place. Fruit country, isn't it?"

She looked at Lord Daeron with real interest for the first time. "Do you know the valley?"

"Not personally, but Imloth Melui has a reputation for the most wholesome fruit and herbs available, not to mention it's roses. I have friends who swear by the stalls selling fruit from Bar-en-Ferin."

Morwen felt herself glowing with the unexpected praise. "That is my planation."

"Is it? Happy coincidence we should meet." He touched her elbow. "Oh, I think I see an opening for us. Shall we?"

She gave him her best smile and let him lead her into the dance.

…

The song ended and the dancers rippled toward the outer edges of the floor. The energetic song had made conversation difficult, but as soon as it ended, Lord Daeron led he by the elbow and began to talk.

"Lady Morwen, would you tell me more about yourself. I know you live in Imloth Melui and that you prefer Hyarnustar Gold to Plowman's Pippin. And I know that you are related to Prince Adrahil but you hail from the south. How is that?"

"My father, Randir, was born in Belfalas. Prince Angelimir was his second cousin."

Daeron gazed at her with amazement. "Not _the_ Lord Randir who served Túrin II and Turgon?" He had a far-off look in his eyes. "'_Lady of Waters, / Your nets weave a bed for me / Ere the bitter wave_.'"

Morwen's face lit up. "The Death poem of Tar-Miriel. That was my favorite of his translations," she cried. "He nearly didn't include it in the anthology because its provenance couldn't be proved."

"I also enjoyed Tar-Amandil's. _'__My heart will set now / Beyond western shores. Behold —'_"

"'_A far green country,'"_ she finished. "I must have heard the poems a million times while my father worked on them."

"I tore through the Death Poems. Perhaps they're morbid, but you can't find a better example of Númenórean spirit than in that small volume. It's all waves and gulls and sea-longing."

Morwen felt herself warming to Lord Daeron even more. "I'm so pleased to hear that my father's hard work is valued by more than Prince Angelimir."

He gently squeezed her arm. "But of course. Lord Randir was invaluable Steward Turgon by all accounts." He bowed his head. "I am something of a scholar myself – or at least I try to be," he demurred.

"Are you? And what do you study?" She tipped her head to the side, trying to puzzle him out. "You said you weren't enthusiastic about poetry."

"No," he agreed, "Your father's work aside, I prefer architecture."

"Oh?"

"I have long made a study of the older houses in Minas Tirith. We don't have the same skill that our forbearers have, but it is possible to replicate them stylistically on a small scale. Say, lodges." He laughed to himself. "I've been pestering Prince Adrahil to allow me to make a study of the palace in Dol Amroth. It's of an older period, and not entirely Númenórean in design, but it's possible to trace the development over time - even Orthanc would make an interesting study, if I could travel so far. Unfortunately I have to look a little closer to home."

"And what do you plan to do with this knowledge?"

His answer was lost to her as the players finished taking their last gulps from the wine glasses hidden beneath their chairs before striking up another air. It was like one of Lossarnach's country dances, only everyone stood very straight and moved in time – and with fewer collisions. She watched the line go down twice and thought she had it figured out.

"I recognize this. It's similar to one we have in Lossarnach, only the fiddler isn't drunk tonight. Not yet, anyway." She laughed. "We call it bobbing for apples. It's a circle dance and then everyone ducks under each other's arms and out other side."

Daeron smiled. "We have one like that in Lamedon too. Perhaps you would honor me with another round?"

"You're a brave man."

"Nonsense. You're a wonderful dancer," he said. "It's a pleasure."

Morwen shook her head, but smiled. "I think you're very kind but not terribly truthful. I don't get much practice in Imloth Melui and well I know it. I have trodden on your toes at least three times."

He laughed. "But you're light on your feet so I barely noticed."

"Small mercies," she said, allowing herself to be swept away.

…

Morwen must have miscounted the steps at the end of the song. She was sure she was right, but when she completed the turn, her partner had disappeared. Instead of curtseying to Daeron, Prince Thengel stood in his place. Her hand was in his before she could think and he bowed over it. Lord Daeron appeared behind him, looking as nonplussed as she felt.

The prince straightened, blocking Daeron from view again.

"Lady Morwen, I heard you were in town."

"Prince Thengel, I…"

She meant to give him a set down for his rudeness to Lord Daeron, but it never made it past her lips. Prince Thengel's hand felt warm around hers and familiar. It looked like Lord Daeron was out a dance partner, though Morwen thought that was for the best. Too much attention, even from someone as charming as Daeron, would bring unwanted speculation. Although she wasn't managing to avoid that with Prince Thengel. Her hand was still in his.

Thoughts of Lord Daeron skittered away like blossoms in the wind. She needed to say something to the prince, but she couldn't remember what. If he would look away for a moment instead of distracting her with his eyes, then she could think! Instead they seemed to envelop her. He seemed so pleased to see her, which was strange because…because…

It came back to her, then.

"Hello, Prince Thengel," she said. "Happy birthday."


	23. The Hurdle

Prince Thengel dropped her hand.

"Thank you," he said grimly.

Morwen had the impression that he felt slightly less pleased to see her now than he had a few seconds ago.

"My birthday passed a few days ago," he said, gazing at some point over her head. "How did you hear about it?"

"Guthere told me. He had some very interesting things to say about you, in fact."

"Hm."

His eyes narrowed as if assessing for damage, which gave him a stern aspect. Couples brushing past them on their way off the dance floor cast curious glances their way. This reminded Morwen that they were standing in a very public place. While most of the people here might not recognize Morwen of Lossarnach, not so with Prince Thengel. She wondered if anyone else noticed the abrupt manner of their reunion?

Lord Daeron had crept away, but Morwen couldn't see where. She regretted he hadn't put up any kind of objection to Prince Thengel cutting in. They must not raise sturdy fellows in Labennin, she reflected.

Prince Thengel also noticed the crowd parting around them and the eyes turned in their direction. He turned so that his back faced the onlookers. Morwen felt his fingers on her elbow.

"It's hot in here. Why don't we find something to drink near the windows? Then we can talk."

Like Lord Daeron, she didn't raise any objections, so he led her toward the banqueting room. They entered through an open archway into a room swarming with activity. Those disinclined to dance were either loading their plates or already seated and filling themselves on wine and the best delicacies available in Minas Tirith. The sideboards bowed under the weight of the platters of meat, fine white breads, towers of fruit (hothouse fare this time of year, no doubt), and sweets. Each platter seemed to flow into the others so that she could barely distinguish one dish from the other.

Morwen gaped at the opulence. Her Lossemeren spread paled in comparison and she had always taken so much pride in her family's hospitality. For a moment she felt mortified. And yet, she reflected, no one ever left her home hungry and nothing went to waste. She doubted that the latter would be the case tonight.

"What is it?" he asked. "Are you hungry?"

Morwen shook her head. "I would need an army of Hareths to prepare all this," she said. "One is enough for my household. Although Guthere has shown a surprising knack for cookery."

Prince Thengel found a passing servant handing out glasses of wine and snagged two of them. They moved toward one of the open floor-length windows letting in the cooling evening air. Morwen took a sip of her wine, but put it down. It reminded her of the wine they shared at Lossemeren.

"So Guthere's found his way to the kitchen? Typical. How's he getting on?" Prince Thengel asked, using the formal tone she hadn't heard since he first arrived at Bar-en-Ferin.

"He's certainly progressing," was all she would tell him about just how well Guthere got on. After all, should she tell him about Hareth or let Guthere take care of his own affairs?

"Ready to come home?"

"Em," Morwen mumbled, looking away, "I don't think he would say so."

"I don't blame him," he said, then he took a rather long sip of wine. "I'd rather be in Lossarnach just now."

His words plucked at her like a child abusing a harp string. "Are you in need of another distraction, then?" she said sharply.

Two women standing nearby glanced over. Morwen caught one of them and something in her expression must have acted as a warning. The woman towed her friend to the other side of the room.

Thengel lowered his glass. "Pardon?"

Morwen felt she had wasted her bravado on the eavesdropping women. She looked down and found it was far harder to speak plainly than she thought it would be now that the moment had come. But she needed to address her concerns.

"Don't be angry with Guthere, Prince Thengel," she said with a low but firm voice, so that no one else would benefit from overhearing her. "He accidentally told me that you came to Lossarnach out of convenience to get away from your uncle and his plans for your welfare."

Something glinted in Prince Thengel's eyes, but it disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. But the expression didn't disappear quickly enough to escape her notice. Morwen braced herself.

"My welfare?" he said coolly. "What does Guthere know about that?"

"That's for you to judge," she replied. "But I must say that I take a dim view of someone who would pretend to grieve with a family so that he can avoid unpleasant business at home."

Thengel fell silent for a long moment while her words sunk in. The breeze coming in from the window teased Morwen's hair like cool fingers and billowed her skirts around her ankles. She focused on the sensation while he gathered himself for a reply.

"Hardang was my friend," he said reprovingly. "You think that because the timing worked out in my favor that I was pretending?"

"I don't want to think that at all, yet you didn't exactly dash off to Arnach."

He drew a line on the floor with the tip of his boot. "No," he said slowly. "In hindsight, I should have."

She couldn't tell if hearing him admit it made her angrier or not. Irrationally, she wanted him to deny it and to supply an acceptable excuse. She didn't want to think of him as a man who could behave dishonorably toward his friends. That what her cousins were for, after all.

"Then why didn't you?"

He looked up at her. "Believe me, I've regretted not riding straight to Arnach. We had nothing but trouble. First Teitherion and his goats, losing the horses, then Guthere." He exhaled in frustration. "At first we didn't know if Guthere would make it past the operation. Then you invited me to stay for the festival while Guthere mended. Halmir and Hundor were coming anyway." He looked at her strangely. "I said I regretted not riding straight to Arnach, but truthfully, it wasn't a hard choice to stay in Imloth Melui."

Morwen remembered that she had indeed invited him and used the pretext of her cousins' arrival to encourage him to accept it. Her righteous anger ebbed. Besides, would Ferneth have accepted Thengel as her guest without Halmir and Hundor at home? Ferneth wouldn't even see them.

"It has been a long time since I've stayed anywhere that filled me with such contentment," he continued. "I enjoyed our conversations."

Morwen stared. "You did?"

"Didn't you?"

"Of course! But I wasn't pretending."

He frowned. "Neither was I. Why would you think that?"

Morwen crossed her arms, then decided it made her feel like an angry fishwife, so she let them fall by her side. "I suppose you would find anything more pleasant than what awaited you here." At least, according to Guthere.

Prince Thengel eyes strained upward at the gilded leaves molded into the vaulted ceiling. "For Valar's sake, yes, but that doesn't mean it wasn't genuine."

Morwen decided she wanted her wine after all. She hadn't desired to quarrel with Prince Thengel in the middle of Merethrond, yet she couldn't bring herself to pretend nothing was wrong until a more appropriate moment presented itself. Still, it didn't feel satisfying. Now she just felt confused.

"Listen," he said. "After the festival it became apparent that I needed to return to Minas Tirith. I am selfish, Lady Morwen, and I have left many important things undone, including paying my respects to Ferneth. As for the rest, my uncle is here to help me remedy that."

A chill ran through Morwen. She'd felt so irritated with him for using her family that she'd forgotten the reason behind it.

"Are you unwell?" he asked, his brow darkening with concern. "You look a little pale."

"I valued Hardang, Lady Morwen. I should have shown it in a more honorable way."

Morwen looked at him in surprise. She didn't know what she had expected from the confrontation, but she realized now it hadn't been a confession. She had grown too used to treating with Halmir who was never wrong and refused to be called out.

"I'm sorry," he added.

Something warmed in her chest. If his admission gave her pain, his apology acted as a balm. It was exactly what she needed to hear. No challenge remained in his eyes. They looked soft and expectant. Her instincts told her to trust what she saw.

"Thank you," she said, giving him a natural smile.

His brows furrowed. "What for?"

"For admitting you were wrong." Valar knew if a few other men in her family would do the same then her life would feel a lot smoother right now.

"Then you forgive me?"

"It was a careless way to behave," she said plainly, "but I don't think you meant any harm."

The skin around his eyes creased as he gave her an answering smile. "I hope not."

…

While they were talking, the music started again in the next room. Morwen could see through the open arch that the couples were regrouping on the floor. Some of the diners abandoned their half finished plates to wander toward the music.

"You and I never danced at Lossemeren, Lady Morwen."

"No, I was a little busy at the time," she said crisply, not thanking him for reminding her of _that_ moment.

He drained the rest of his drink, then said, "I never asked if you spilled that wine on purpose?"

"Did you give Halmir a wetting on purpose?"

Thengel grinned, then his smiled faded. "It's a shame you weren't able to enjoy the festival the way you should have. How are you enjoying this evening so far? Better?"

"It's improving," she began, but then decided to poke at him once more. "Though I seem to have misplaced my dance partner."

Prince Thengel stared at the bottom of his empty wine glass. "Hm. Who was he?"

"Lord Daeron of Lamedon. Do you know him?"

Prince Thengel shrugged. "Pleasant fellow?"

She smiled, remembering their conversation about her father's poetry. "Yes, I thought so."

"Hm."

They seemed destined for awkward silences. She had promised Adrahil to enjoy the evening, but she was failing dismally. Morwen scraped her brains for something to say to steer the conversation to brighter things, but the harder she tried, the less she could think of. They had managed one hurdle, but now she felt they were coming to another one.

His eyes focused on something in the through the doorway into the hall and she felt his body tense next to hers. He reached for her arm.

Morwen didn't know what to expect from what she saw of the Prince's expression. Maybe Halmir had materialized or a rabid dog? Or Lady Rían? Whatever it was, he looked like a cornered animal.

But it was Adrahil who appeared on the threshold of the dining room. At first her cousin looked worried as if he thought Morwen had disappeared on his watch. When their eyes met, a relieved smile replaced the worry.

"Oh, you've found Prince Thengel. Good evening."

Thengel inclined his head. "Prince Adrahil."

"I saw Daeron wandering around like a lost dog and I wondered — but never mind."

She felt guilt like worms in her stomach. They really hadn't been polite to Lord Daeron. Did he look like a lost dog? She would have to apologize to him when next they met.

While she stewed over her behavior, Prince Thengel's hand on her arm became a matter of scrutiny for Adrahil. They both looked at Adrahil who's concerned eyes traveled between them like a pendulum. He seemed to be compiling information for future processing.

"Listen, Morwen, I have to take Aranel home. The air's too close in here tonight. She's starting to feel unwell again."

Morwen felt the worms of guilt wriggling again. They were here tonight because of her. All of Aranel's anxieties for tonight centered on Morwen's enjoyment and now she was unwell.

"Will she be all right?"

"Yes, yes. We'll go before it turns into an attack. Listen, Lady Rían has agreed to look after you, if you wish to stay for supper," he said, misinterpreting their reason for being in the dining room. "Aranel is adamant that this doesn't spoil your evening." He seemed to be measuring the space between the Prince and his cousin while questioning the wisdom of Aranel's determination. "Erm, but if you want to come home now…"

Prince Thengel noticed that too. "Lady Morwen was just filling me in on events since I left my guard in her care," he said stoically. Then his eyes twitched back to the ballroom.

Adrahil's expression smoothed into an impressive blank. "Oh, well, good. I imagine you have a lot to catch up on."

"Yes," Morwen agreed.

Adrahil seemed reluctant to leave. Morwen sensed that he wanted her to come home with them now, but had probably been forced to promise Aranel that he wouldn't suggest any such thing. They stood in a triangle of awkward silence while Adrahil decided what to do with himself.

"Aranel is waiting for you," Morwen pointed out eventually. "And Prince Thengel has just reminding me that we never danced at Lossemeren."

Adrahil blinked. Had she really just dismissed him? Morwen wondered where the gumption had come from. She was about to apologize, but Adrahil seemed to have finally made up his mind.

"Yes, Aranel is waiting – and Prince Thengel, it seems, is waiting too. Very well. But, listen, Morwen, don't wander too far from Lady Rían," he said. "Good night." He inclined his head to Prince Thengel.

Once Adrahil disappeared into the crowd, Thengel lost his wine glass and murmured, "follow me."

"But they are dancing in the other direction," she told him as he steered her around.

"Exactly."

Morwen looked in the direction that the Prince had been watching. She could see a golden head bobbing through the crowd toward them. But then she lost sight of it as he ushered her out one of the open windows.

…

The terrace behind Merethrond was full of men and women enjoying wine and conversation. Light spilled out from the hall onto the white stone, supplemented here and there by tall, circular braziers formed to look like suns. The couples seemed to avoid the light, leaning into the shadows to whisper to one another.

Silence descended like a brick when Prince Thengel appeared. Nobody recognized Morwen as someone of interest, apparently, for the drone of conversation started all over again in a few seconds once they had looked over the Prince's companion and couldn't place her.

Prince Thengel considered the different directions of the stairs leading down from the terrace into the gardens. Then he looked back into the dining room. She tried to see what he was looking at.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Hm?"

"Whoever you're avoiding? Is it your fiancé?"

_"__My what?"_ he cried.

The voices ceased again. Morwen grimaced. They were drawing no small amount of notice from the guests nearest them who found the Prince and this unfamiliar woman more interesting than whatever they had to say to one another.

"Guthere said…"

"Hang Guthere and his loose tongue," he growled. "Wait, what did he say?"

"He said your uncle was bringing you a wife?" Morwen had the feeling, based on his reaction, that Guthere was either very mistaken or very correct.

Prince Thengel reached for the hair at the back of his neck and began to abuse it. "I really will give him another knock on the head," he muttered.

"Guthere won't mind. He likes Bar-en-Ferin. Quite attached, you might say."

Prince Thengel's lips curled sourly. "Lady Morwen, do me a favor and try to forget whatever it is that Guthere's been telling you. He should have kept his mouth shut."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "You mean he's wrong?"

"I mean it's not his place to discuss my affairs," he said impatiently.

"I think he believed he only shared facts that were common knowledge."

"Well, it wouldn't be common knowledge if people had the sense to hold their tongues," he groused.

He had said it louder than he meant to, for now people were openly staring again. Prince Thengel cast a jaundiced eye over the crowd. Several more couples spilled out of the hall behind them, seeking the cooler air and sheltering alcoves, so he offered Morwen his arm.

"Please, come into the garden. We can talk there."

She looked back at the glass doors, ignoring his arm. "What about Lady Rían?"

"What about her?" he asked, puzzled.

Morwen wondered if he selectively deaf. Hadn't he heard Adrahil?

"Lady Rían is supposed to keep an eye on me," she reminded him.

Thengel gave her an arch look. "You are the Lady of Imloth Melui. Do you need her to keep an eye on you?"

Morwen gaped as an invisible barb hit her square in the center of her pride. Something like steel glinted in her eyes. From the satisfied expression on his face, the Prince knew he'd made a hit.

Did she need the likes of Lady Rían to safeguard her character or curtail her movements? Of course not! What had gotten into her? The Prince's challenge made her seem like a meek little mouse.

Fueled by annoyance, she sailed past him to the nearest staircase and began her descent into the shadows, far from Lady Rían's view. Behind the roar of blood in her ears, she heard Prince Thengel's footsteps following. Her objective brain told her that she had allowed him to provoke her into behaving exactly the way he'd meant her to. She decided to consider the implications later after the indignation burned off.

…

Morwen reached the gravel walk at the bottom of the stairs and realized she didn't know which way to go. Three paths disappeared into the dark beneath tall hedges. One couple passed her by and entered the middle way. The path on the far right seemed to follow the line of the terrace and of all the three looked the best lit. While she deliberated, Prince Thengel caught up with her.

"You look annoyed," he observed.

"I feel annoyed."

"Sorry," he said, though she didn't think he looked one jot repentant. "Here, take the left path. There's a quiet corner that way."

They walked under the stars in silence. The breeze cut the heat seeping from the stone all around them. They could hear other couples' voices barely muffled by the tall hedges, but they couldn't see them.

"I had no idea there were gardens behind Merethrond until Aranel told me," she said when she felt she'd been silent long enough.

"You didn't spend much time exploring Minas Tirith when you were growing up?"

"No. Do they let many children wander into the citadel?"

"I guess not. I sometimes take my position in the Steward's house for granted."

"You lived with the Steward?"

"Yes, for a few years." He added lightly, "When Ecthelion married I started to feel like I was getting underfoot."

"I suppose you were." Then she said, "You must know all the secrets of the citadel."

"A few. Didn't your father ever take you around when he visited Turgon?"

"Rarely. I was always either stuck in a fruit stall with my mother or else playing in the garden behind Prince Angelimir's home. My father never took me anywhere with him, because he didn't think I could sit still."

"Was that justified?"

"Well," she drawled. "There's a pond in the gardens of the Houses of Healing. I used to find it quite refreshing, which might have violated the Warden's views of appropriate behavior. The incident left an impression on my father."

"Surely you were very young when _that _happened."

"Yes. When I was old enough to help in the orchard I only traveled with them to meet our cousins. Then when my mother died I stopped going for a few years. It wasn't a loss to me." A shadow passed over her face. "Although maybe if I had traveled more, I might find this present situation easier."

She fell into a gloomy silence.

"You've had bad news, I see," he said. "The morning I left you sounded optimistic that Halmir would pack up camp. But he hasn't."

"No."

"He means you harm, doesn't he?"

He looked her in the eyes and she found it hard not to turn away or fabricate an answer. The memory of Halmir's hands around her wrists caused her to shiver. How could he make her feel like this all the way from Lossarnach?

"What did Adan tell you?" she asked.

"He only told me anything concerning himself." When she looked troubled, he added, "And I have to say I take a dim view of not being thought trustworthy. Why on earth would you tell Adan to keep secrets?"

Her hand fluttered in the air. "This whole situation is teaching me to be more wary. I didn't want any rumors circulating if someone overheard."

"While I think caution is best, you know I would never spread tales."

"Honestly, Prince Thengel, I am reminded that I don't know you very well at all."

His brows knit together and he seemed unable to think of anything to say to that. They crunched their way over the gravel path, letting the curve of the hedges guide them. Though they did not meet anyone on their path, they often heard the murmurings of others on the other side of the juniper.

"Will Adan be all right?" Morwen asked after a time. "Halmir won't forget that he helped me."

"Don't worry about Adan." Prince Thengel kicked a stick out of their path. "He acted with his eyes open. Ecthelion has put him under my protection. If your cousin doesn't like it, he will have to complain to the Captain of the Tower of Guard. Somehow I doubt he'll feel tempted."

"Will he stay here with you, then?"

"Yes, until he returns to Ithilien, which is what he wants."

"Adan is lucky in his friends," Morwen observed. She felt buoyant with relief.

"He isn't the only one. I would like you to think of me as an ally in this. Won't you tell me what has happened since I left?"

"Here?" Morwen looked doubtfully at the hedges on either side. While it gave the illusion of privacy, she knew they could be heard all too easily.

"There's a quiet spot I know."

Thengel stopped suddenly, as if something over the hedge had caught his eye. The tension in his shoulders reminded her of a spooked cat. He twisted around, thinking.

"Are you all right?"

He ignored the question. "Follow me."

He led her swiftly down the path, then all but shoved her through a gap in the bushes that she hadn't noticed, which put them in a new lane in the garden.

"Sorry," he said. "I thought we should take this path." Thengel also looked back at the gap in the hedge and his face went slack. "This way."

Before she knew it, he had spun her into another narrow parting in the shrubbery and she found herself in a narrow sward that ended in the stone battlement encircling the citadel. Prince Thengel followed and together they huddled against the wall.

"What…"

"Shh. Wait."

Someone passed by along the hedge, but didn't see the gap that Thengel had ushered her through. She heard someone muttering in a foreign language, a woman's voice. It sounded like cursing, but it was hard to tell with Rohirric. From what little Guthere had managed to teach them, even a cheerful _good morning_ sounded intimidating.

"Not a friend of yours?" she whispered.

"Friend? Béma, no. My sister."

Morwen stared at him. This far from the terrace the darkness made it hard to see his features well. "Your sister? Then why are we hiding?"

"Shh."

"If you shush me again I will be very cross," she hissed.

"Sorry."

They waited until the crunch of gravel faded completely away. She felt the tension drain from his shoulders and arms.

"That was close," he said, sounding pleased and relieved. "Wynflaed doesn't know the gardens like I do."

"Why are you avoiding your sister?" she asked.

He snorted, as if the answer should be obvious. "She isn't someone you want to meet."

Morwen pursed her lips, then said, "I think I can decide that for myself."

"Some other time, then," Thengel said, fishing into a small pouch hanging on his belt. "But fair warning."

"Why? What is she like?"

"For starters she has a sword named _Cwealmbonda_." He noticed her puzzled expression. "It translates to something like death-husband."

Morwen stared. Guthere hadn't told her anything about Prince Thengel's sister. "Why does she carry a sword?" Not that she didn't think a woman should carry a sword - she could see how it would be useful. Halmir might think differently about the way he treated her. But it wasn't the common practice in Gondor.

"Because she is a shieldmaiden and a zealot," he said sharply. "So, if you don't mind, I'd prefer a little peace this evening." He pulled out something that looked like a file from his pocket. Then he turned to face the vine-choked wall.

Morwen looked around the little alcove. It didn't appear to have any openings.

"What if she comes back? This is a dead end."

"Is it?" Thengel felt around the wall, pushing aside vines and kicking away stones. His fingers stilled suddenly and a look of expectation brightened his face. With a smart jerk the vines snapped. Falling away, they revealed a seam in the wall.

"Here we are."

He jimmied the device, a slim metal file from his pocket, into the seam. A scrape, a groan, and then a pop. A door scraped open by a mere inch. His fingers pulled it open, scudding over the gravel and weeds.

"Don't you dare show that to anyone in Imloth Melui," she said, thinking of her own garden wall.

"I swear." He grinned and put the file away. "Now in we go."

Morwen peeked around his shoulder to see what lay past the door. He gently nudged her through with his hand on her back. He followed behind, shutting the door. She was surprised to see that someone had built a trellis on the interior side so that the door looked like a fixed portion of the wall. The seam between the door and wall were concealed by climbing morning glories, now tightly closed against the evening.

"What is this place?" she asked.

Prince Thengel took a deep breath and looked about him with an affectionate expression.

"It's the garden behind the King's House - currently in the Steward's use." He pointed to a window nearest side of the house where it met the wall. Morwen noted that all the windows were dark, which meant no one would observe them here.

"I'd climb over the wall between these gardens and then slip away through Merethrond when I needed to escape for a little while. Turgon never used the hall much, so I could pass through undetected most of the time. Ecthelion found my climbing the wall and falling over the other side entertaining." He gave her a wry look. "Years later he admitted there was a door."

"Will Steward Turgon mind that you've broken into his garden?"

"I doubt it."

Morwen turned to view the prospect. They stood on the lip of a sunken garden. Little flagstone steps descended on four sides. Below, four rose beds were enclosed by double hedges, which had once been carefully trimmed into tight boxes. Each corner of the hedges was capped with rounded laurel trees. In the center, a marble fountain gurgled sluggishly. The hedge corners pointing toward the fountain were beveled and within each bevel, a large planter rested.

Morwen wandered down the lane nearest them. The hedges and laurels made her feel sheltered. It almost felt like wandering beneath her own trees at home. The square fountain with its ailing pump sat crumbling in the center surrounded by creeping weeds with tiny yellow flowers. The little garden looked beautiful in a forlorn sort of way. Morwen didn't like the stone city and it made her feel a little hopeful to see flora winning against the cold stone, even if it did mean the fountain was falling apart. It had probably been there since the house was built ages ago.

"It doesn't look like anyone takes care of this place?"

Thengel shrugged. "Not since Ecthelion's mother died, I don't think. She loved this garden, but Turgon spends most of his time on the Steward's seat or in his tower."

"And Ecthelion's wife?"

"I think she prefers interiors."

"I can tell."

Tall foxgloves grew in each planter like points on a compass, but they seemed to Morwen to droop. She knelt down beside one and plunged her fingers into the dirt. The soil felt completely dry.

"How hard could it be to make sure the gardener isn't shirking his duties?" She held out her handful of dirt to show Thengel. "Look, it just crumbles away."

He gripped the underside of her wrist so that her hand rested on top of his palm and pulled her up. "Yes, I see." He looked close to laughing.

"Is there a shed nearby or a watering can?" she asked.

"No, not that I can see."

Morwen pulled her hand away. She rubbed the dirt between her fingers and saw the dark semi circles under her nails with chagrin. She wrinkled her nose.

"What is it?" he asked.

She showed him her dirty fingernails. "What will Lady Rían say?"

He laughed and produced a handkerchief for her. "Here, wash off in the fountain."

When she went to do so, she saw a tin cup abandoned at the bottom of the basin. She reached in and pulled it out, shaking off the water. Prince Thengel came up beside her.

"Found something?" he asked. "It looks like Denethor has been sneaking meals out here."

"Lord Ecthelion's son?"

Prince Thengel nodded. "There's a family campaign about his eating habits."

"Maybe they've been successful? This cup looks like it's been out here a while. But it will suit my purposes."

Morwen inspected the inside of the cup. Rust had had its way with it, but the overall structure looked sound. It would suffice. She filled the cup with water. But when she turned toward the nearest planter, she felt cold water running down her leg.

"There's a hole," Morwen gasped, holding the cup as far away from her body as possible a fitful flow of water arced downward. She turned the now empty cup over and examined the bottom with her fingertip. Rust had eaten thin cracks along the bottom edge that she hadn't seen in the dark.

"At least it isn't wine this time," Prince Thengel pointed out.

Trust him to remember that! She made a face, which he returned with a benign smile.

"Here, allow me." He took the cup in his own large palm, which covered most of the cracks. "You don't want to ruin your dress."

"It's only water," she scoffed.

He looked down at her, then away. "Mmm hmm."

While his back was turned, she looked down at her knees and she just barely stifled a gasp. The wet fabric was entirely transparent, clinging to her legs like a second yellow skin. She knew it was little better than a slip!

Morwen picked the wet fabric away from her legs and tried to fluff the skirt dry while Prince Thengel watered the flowers for her. It was a messy affair, despite his best efforts. By the time she felt satisfied that the flowers had enough to drink, his leggings looked little dryer than her dress.

"You know, I think most of it ended up in my shoes somehow." He put the cup down on the fountain edge and pointed down to the leather slippers. "Listen."

She did listen as he paced up the far side of the fountain. His footsteps had a decidedly squelchy sound.

"Sorry," she said. "I could have done it…." Then she remembered her dress.

"Never mind that. Let's talk while we dry out," he said.

It would have to be a long conversation, Morwen thought. She followed Thengel to a bench down one of the lanes. The backrest looked half hidden by vines. She leaned back against the foliage, not caring if every spider hiding there fell into her lap. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the green scent and felt her body relax. A garden felt so much pleasanter than the inside of a ballroom. From this prospect against the wall they directly faced the house. She counted the stories and the windows. Was this a peaceful home, she wondered?

"What has happened at Bar-en-Ferin since I left?"

"Well, we've had several fires," she said, "where the men camp."

"Fires." Prince Thengel leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He plucked one of the leaves from its vine and turned it over with his fingers. "Idiots. I'm glad you have Beldir's help."

"Beldir broke his leg two days before I left Lossarnach," she told him.

Prince Thengel's eyelids drooped. "What happened?" he asked in a low voice.

"He says he heard an animal rooting around on his roof the night before we were to leave to Minas Tirith. Beldir fell when he went up to look for damage."

"Has he had problems with animals in his roof before?"

"No."

"I see." He began to shred the leaf and let the pieces fall to the ground. "Halmir knew you were leaving?"

"Hundor did, so…yes."

She watched him vent his spleen on another leaf. After his third, she reached out and covered his hands. His grip on the poor leaf slackened and the last pieces fell. She let go.

Prince Thengel sat up straight again and adjusted himself on the bench so he could see her plainly. "What made you leave?"

Morwen pressed her fingers into her forehead. "Oh, it's a stupid muddle. Halmir's entangled himself and the estate. He borrowed money to turn the orchard into some sort of haven for fashionable city people and pitched it to his friends as an investment opportunity. I disliked his scheme before, but this is worse."

Prince Thengel winced. "How much?"

"A very great amount. I have no idea how he thinks he can repay his friends any time soon."

"What did Halmir give as security?"

"Me, I think."

He gave her a stern look. "What do you mean?"

"I worked it out, finally," she said, looking down at the white cenedril pattern on her lap. "If I married him he could do whatever he liked with Bar-en-Ferin without any resistance. I think it surprised him that I refused and the delay is making him nervous."

"You can always resist."

Morwen shook her head mournfully. "I don't have any right of succession to the estate. Adrahil says the agreement died with my parents. Even if I did marry Halmir, the law doesn't give a wife any leverage," she finished bleakly.

"Well, you aren't going to be his wife. So?"

"So, even now I can't keep up with Halmir. Every time I think it can't get worse, he surprises me. I don't want any of his friends thinking I am also responsible for paying back the loans."

"You didn't sign anything," he assured her. "They can't touch you."

"But what will they do to Halmir if he can't pay them back? Could they take Bar-en-Ferin?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself," he said. "Let's first find out if Halmir has any claim to the estate."

Morwen sighed angrily. "I told you that I don't, so—"

"Even if you don't, does that automatically mean that Halmir does?"

"Adrahil believes that there isn't any legal basis to stop Halmir from claiming Bar-en-Ferin in Forlong's name."

The Prince regarded that last roadblock with a sour frown. But when he spoke, his tone was gentle.

"May I ask what you plan to do if Halmir follows through with his threats? Where would you go if he did claim the land?"

Plan? Morwen hadn't had any time to plan, only to avoid. Halmir kept her on her toes, kept her household in chaos, robbed her even of the peace she had taken for granted under her roof. She pulled the frazzled strands of consciousness still left to her and tried to envision the next step. Minas Tirith had been her next step, but she couldn't dodge Halmir forever. Eventually he would lose patience and there would be a bathing house where her apple trees once stood.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I had hoped to meet the Steward tonight and make arrangements for an audience, but he didn't come." She kicked at a stray pebble beneath the bench. "I've wasted three days with nothing accomplished. Adrahil thinks that with the deputies from Lake-town still in the city it could be several more weeks before we can put my case forward."

"I see. The events in Rhovanion this winter have disrupted many things."

She looked at him. "What do you mean?"

Prince Thengel looked like he had to swallow around a rock in his throat. "After the Battle of Five Armies, orcs and wolves were scattered all over wilderland. Some we now know made for the remaining hidey-holes in Mordor. Many of them, well…"

"Slipped into Ithilien," she finished, closing her eyes.

"Yes."

"The orcs that ambushed and killed my cousin were from Rhovanion?"

"Frár told us they came from as far as the Mount Gundabad and many followed Thorin Oakenshield's expedition from the Misty Mountains."

This news felt like a blow to her gut. Morwen covered her mouth and took deep breaths through her nose. No one in Ithilien, not even Captain Ecthelion, could have known till it was too late. How could they prepare for the onslaught? An onslaught with reverberations, which even now they felt beneath the shade of Imloth Melui.

"How did the orcs know the Dwarves were making for Erebor to reclaim their treasure?"

Prince Thengel stirred next to her. "That is a question that has disturbed the councils of the wise and one that I am unable to answer."

Oh Hardang. Morwen felt, by turns, numb and heartsick. They hadn't had a warning. Not a rumor. And the consequences for Ferneth, and Forlong, and yes, even herself, were great.

"I never would have thought," she murmured, "that some unknown Dwarves returning to their home in a far away mountain would mean that I would have to leave mine."

Prince Thengel mulled over something in his mind. In the gathering dark, it was difficult to see exactly what he might be thinking. His arms were crossed as if he were holding in some inner struggle from her view.

"What is it?" she asked gently.

"I," he looked at her, almost pleadingly, "I'm sorry I couldn't protect Hardang."

Morwen didn't know what it felt like to fight alongside someone and then to lose that person. She wasn't a warrior. Guilt she could imagine, but she knew better than to claim she understood what he felt as a survivor. When she recalled how she had earlier accused him of not truly grieving for Hardang, she felt ashamed.

"I know you are," she told him. "But nobody blames you."

"Nobody?" He half laughed, a bitter sound.

"I don't and I don't think you should blame yourself either."

He looked down at her. "If we were better prepared, Hardang would be alive and you wouldn't be in this mess with Halmir."

"Is there any profit in thinking in ifs?" she gently reproved. "It certainly won't help me against Halmir now. Nothing will if the Steward can't."

Prince Thengel stretched his legs out and studied the tips of his shoes. "Do you have an appointment with him?"

"No. Adrahil hasn't applied to his clerk yet."

"If Adrahil plans to go that route, it will take weeks. How would it be if I put a word in with the Steward instead?"

"Can you?" she asked, turning on the bench to see him better. Their knees brushed together.

"With your permission, yes. Turgon is like a father to me," he said with the first hint of a smile since he mentioned the orcs. "No visiting hours required."

Morwen thought about it from several different angles. She didn't feel entirely comfortable engaging the Prince to act for her. And yet, if her connection to him as a friend gave her any leverage with the Steward that she couldn't get from Adrahil, why not take advantage of such an offer? Would her father think it prudent? She didn't know. And he wasn't here to advise her anymore.

"I wouldn't want you to abuse your relationship with Turgon," she said at last. "But I confess it would make me very happy if you did speak to him. Thank you, Prince Thengel."

"Thengel will do."

Morwen held out her hand to him. He took it. "Morwen, then," she said.

A light appeared in one of the upper windows of the mansion and they each looked up, squinting.

"That would be Denethor getting ready for bed, I think," he told her.

"Should we go back? Lady Rían might be wondering where I've gone." Before Thengel could provoke her on that point again, she hastily added, "I wouldn't want to distress her for doing Adrahil a favor - whether I needed it or not."

"Fair enough."

Thengel rose and grimaced against the clammy dampness in his shoes. They squished with each step toward the hidden door.

"It's not a dignified sound, is it?" he reflected.

Morwen shook her head.

He squared his shoulders. "Nothing for it, but onward."

…

They passed a few more lingering couples hiding in the hedges who barely masked their surprise at Morwen's damp gown and Thengel's squashing feet. When the terrace came into view, they disturbed a couple that had been whispering on a bench. The couple stared as Thengel squelched past.

"Good evening," he drawled. "Nice night."

The couple just stared. Morwen tried not to laugh but by the time they entered Merethrond, neither of them were in a state of composure.

They entered the hall and were immediately met by a tall, elegant woman watching out the windows with her arms folded. With the noise of the remaining guests, the sounds of Thengel's shoes didn't reach her until they were before her. Her eyes darted down and she flinched with each gurgle and squish of the leather.

"I see you've found a charming partner without my help," she said, addressing the prince. "Did you fish her out of the fountains?" she asked, looking them up and down.

"Not quite," Thengel answered. "Morwen, have you met Idhren?"

Idhren! This was the woman that Lady Rían had been complaining about earlier, though Morwen wondered how she could have dared. Her father would have described Idhren as resplendent and probably the closest thing that Minas Tirith had seen to a queen in generations.

Lady Idhren gave Morwen a cool smile. "We have not had that pleasure. Morwen of…?"

"Morwen of Lossarnach," he answered. "Let me present the Lady of the Tower of Guard."

Morwen had never heard of any such person, but she sounded important. "Oh."

Idhren raised an eyebrow. "My dear," she said to Morwen, "that's just his way of saying I'm Ecthelion's wife."

She held out her hand and Morwen politely squeezed Idhren's fingers, before realizing with horror that her own fingernails still had dirt under them despite the water. Idhren saw them, she could tell. In fact, she felt that somehow Idhren could see a great many things about Morwen within a short space of time. It unnerved her to feel scrutinized and cataloged in mere seconds.

"Lossarnach. How interesting. I suppose you met this spring." Idhren turned to Thengel, "Darling, you didn't tell me you had such a lovely friend."

There was some veiled meaning behind Idhren's words, but Morwen didn't quite know what that was. She hoped they could politely dismiss themselves from her. Something about the lady's cool playfulness baffled Morwen.

"Where are you staying, Lady Morwen? I shall have to come visit you."

"I—"

"Have you seen Lady Rían?" Thengel asked, interrupting. "Morwen is in her charge."

Idhren let her head fall back and she laughed, as if she found Lady Rían a great source of amusement. "Why, yes, I have. A good deal too much this evening."

"Where is she?" Morwen asked.

"Quite gone."

"Gone? But Adrahil spoke to her about me."

"She must have forgotten. It's fortunate I found you," Idhren told her. "She left with her husband, citing a headache and that she had to make sure her daughter didn't die in the street."

Morwen went pale. "Aranel—"

"Is fine, I'm sure." She reached forward and squeezed Morwen's arm with a slim, white hand. "Prince Adrahil would never let her die on the curb. He'd at least tuck her into bed first. I always found him to be a conscientious young man."

Thengel had been listening to his friend with a cool, bland expression, but now he looked stern. "Idhren, don't tease. Morwen is their cousin."

"Poor creature. Don't mind me." Idhren waved her hand as if to dismiss her earlier teasing. "Lady Rían is an alarmist. I'm sure all the Princess needed was fresh air."

Morwen turned to Thengel. "Lady Rían and Lord Belehir were going to see me home."

"That can be easily remedied." Idhren surprised Morwen greatly by tucking her arm through hers and began to usher her toward the staircase. Thengel followed behind after a few seconds of puzzlement.

Idhren led her right through the middle of the dance floor. Instead of causing a collision and among the dancers, to Morwen's amazement the whole floor seemed accutely aware of Lady Idhren and anticipated her movement. They parted for her and her charge like the mist making way for the sun.

"I would offer you my protection, Lady Morwen," she said confidentially, "but I can't abandon the guests. You look _so_ tired. Doesn't she, Thengel? You will have to take her yourself."

They stopped at the foot of the staircase where she had entered Merethrond with Adrahil and Aranel. How much time had elapsed since then?

"What about Wynflaed?" he asked, looking around the room.

"Wynflaed could accompany you, too," Idhren answered, "but I've sent her home with Rurik since she couldn't find you earlier. She's such an odd woman. One would think the pleasures of a ball were completely lost on her."

Morwen observed an interesting change come over Thengel's countenance. He looked like a man who had just felt the earth shaking beneath his feet.

"With Rurik?" he repeated. "King Bard's deputy?"

Idhren smiled, Morwen thought, or at least she was showing teeth. "With Rurik, etc., etc."

"By herself? Idhren, you realize my sister is a…"

"She's a shieldmaiden, as everyone keeps telling me. That's why I arranged it. Rurik might learn a thing or two." Idhren smirked. "I certainly hope so. Now, get along and don't keep this pretty young lady waiting."

"But…"

"Offer her your arm, you oaf. She's drooping. Now go." Idhren herded them up the stairs. They were parted at the top. "Thengel," Morwen heard Idhren whisper. "If I were you, I'd take the long way around."

"Don't be foolish," he muttered. "I know what you're thinking but —"

"Good. I hate to be obscure," she replied. "Good night, Lady Morwen. There are more fountains on the way out. I'll visit you when I can!"

Idhren retreated down the staircase. She was met by Lord Ecthelion, who glanced up at them with a puzzled (and mildly threatening, thanks to his scar) expression. He seemed to want to speak to Thengel, but was led off by his wife toward the few remaining figures still dancing.

"What was she talking about?" Morwen asked as she watched husband and wife retreat.

"Idhren? Nothing of consequence," he said hastily.

"Are you worried about your sister?" she asked.

"Béma, no," he said, looking surprised. "I'm worried about Rurik."

…

When they passed into the cool evening air, Morwen exhaled with relief. Then she wrinkled her nose.

"Do I look like I'm drooping? I don't feel like I am."

"No, you look beautiful," he said with the distracted air of someone trying to have two or three thoughts all at the same time.

The evening felt hot again. "Have you been friends with Lady Idhren long?"

"Ages. She was one of the first friends I had when I arrived in Minas Tirith."

"She is a very fine woman."

"She is certainly that," he said warmly. "You'd be good friends."

Morwen frowned. "I don't know. We don't seem to be in the same league."

He looked at her oddly, his mind focusing again on the present. "Why do you say that?"

Morwen blinked at him. Wasn't it obvious? "She's so stately and self-possessing. The room pivoted around her. Didn't you notice?"

Thengel smiled at that. "You know, when I first saw you, I thought the same thing."

"Me?" That didn't seem very likely, she thought.

"Sure. The whole room seemed to bend toward you. And you sailed in with flower blossoms falling behind you like the queen of Imloth Melui."

She sniffed. "There is no such person."

"No, but I was expecting someone more like Gildis, if you recall. You made a startling contrast."

"I forgot! I don't think poor Gildis never will."

They laughed together and Morwen reflected that she liked this easy conversation much better than when she had first met him earlier in the evening. She felt thankful to be on good terms again.

They were soon in the middle of a crowd of revelers enjoying the fountain, ignoring the dead tree in the middle of it. Most of the candles in their little boats were extinguished. Thengel took Morwen's hand and led her through the press, using his broad shoulders to wedge a path for them.

"Your shoes must be uncomfortable," she said over the noise.

"Not bad."

"It was foolish, watering the plants like that. I guess we could have waited to talk to a servant. I don't know what came over me."

Thengel shrugged and said over his shoulder, "I said you were a champion. Whether it's keeping Beldir from flaying Gundor or saving thirsty flowers. Besides, you're at home with plants."

"I wish I was at home. At least until I remember that Halmir's waiting."

"Wait and see what the Steward will say," he reminded her. "Until then, don't waste too much time on Halmir. He doesn't deserve it."

…

The road to the Adrahil's townhome was crowded with departing revelers. Instead of enjoying a quiet walk, they were crushed nearly the whole way home and once they were out of the citadel, she could feel the gaze of many eyes upon them. She wondered if it was wise to allow Lady Idhren to arrange them, and she realized that's exactly what had happened. What was Idhren's motivation? Morwen shook herself. Too many people seemed to be too far ahead of her. That needed to change.

"What is the long way around?" she asked him, recalling what she had overheard. "I thought there was only one way through Minas Tirith."

Thengel looked suddenly vague. "It's an expression in the city."

"For what?"

"For taking one's time," he answered dryly.

"Oh. As if we could help it with all this foot traffic."

He looked at her and then away with a poorly suppressed smile. "Do you remember the day we walked to Anorian's well?"

"Yes," she said, puzzled by the change of subject. Perhaps it was natural that one walk would remind him of another such time.

"I would like to see the roses in bloom. We were too early before."

"Then you must come this summer," she faltered, "if I am still living there."

"You will be." Something in his tone caused her to look at him. It was the first note of optimism she had encountered in several weeks.

"You can't know that."

"Cheer up," he said. "Maybe Halmir has some legal clout, but I doubt a man like Halmir would make such a fuss if he felt as secure as he sounded."

Morwen stopped in her tracks and a pedestrian bumped into her from behind, knocking her against Thengel's side. His arm circled round her waist to keep her from falling. The man skittered around them, muttering under his breath.

"Sorry," she said, as she found her footing again. "You think there's something we're missing?"

"Possibly." He tucked her arm through his and they continued on.

Morwen brightened, then faltered. "But he's acting as regent. By the time Forlong grows up, it will be too late to reverse the decision. Halmir could decide to managed the estate himself until that time."

"Can he?"

Morwen shrugged helplessly. "Who's to stop him? There are five score of his men installed in my orchard and my lord Forlong can barely hold his own head up. We won't know what the child wants for another two years - and that will have more to do with food and a clean nappy."

He grinned at that. "That is the tricky part. But I think we can come up with a solution once we figure out what we're missing."

"We? Prince Thengel…"

"Thengel."

"Yes. You keep saying _we_ as if this involves you. While you agreed to speak to the Steward, that's more than I have a right to expect."

"As you say, Halmir has an army. You will need help paying out your cousin and I owe you a favor." He gave her a clear-eyed smile.

"Are you serious?" she gasped.

"I knew Hardang. His brother is not honoring his memory," Thengel said gravely. "Where I come from, a man who steals from a woman, especially his own kinswoman, would have a reckoning on his hands."

"Technically, he isn't stealing anything," she pointed out.

"Your livelihood, he is."

That was true. "But why would you want to get involved in this headache? And don't say because of Guthere."

"Why not?"

"I'd be ashamed if you thought you owed me for helping an injured man."

"Then let's just say I know what it's like to live in the wake of a greedy relative." He looked down at his soggy shoes, then up again. "I wouldn't be here if someone hadn't intervened for me too. Trust me, we will think of something."

Morwen bit the inside of her cheek. She didn't know what Thengel could do when Adrahil couldn't think of anything. But he was at least willing to try and that's what she needed - any little sliver of hope. As for trust, what did she have to go on?

Morwen considered Hardang a man of good character and he had found Prince Thengel to be a worthy companion. There was the regard that Guthere and Cenhelm and the rest held for him, men under his power, who he could make happy or unhappy on a whim. Then there was his behavior as her guest. He hadn't done anything untoward. When she had confronted him about Hardang, he had owned his blame and apologized.

He was a man who could see his own faults and make amends. She admired that more than anything. Part of her mind whispered _prudence_, but her heart seemed already to know the answer. She _would _trust him, and either that trust would pay off or it wouldn't.

And if it did, she wondered for the first time what the cost might be. She looked up at his profile. Sensing her attention, he turned.

"We're almost to your gate," he told her. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she answered. She thought she might be.

Thengel walked her to the gate and spoke to the porter who admitted them into the courtyard. His hand cupped her elbow as he steered her toward the imposing marble doors of the Prince of Dol Amroth's house. To her, it was the most familiar landmark in the city. Somehow standing there with the prince she had a different perspective. Or maybe she felt different. As they waited on the steps for the servant to attend the door, Morwen realized that there were more changes than she'd reckoned on since coming to Minas Tirith.


	24. Houses of Healing

AN: See bottom of chapter for updated character list, because unwieldy cast. Also, apologies for extra amount of typos. I didn't get a chance to print this chapter for edits. I also don't know if coffee was agriculturally or politically feasible in Gondor, but if I'm wrong I don't wanna be right.

* * *

Adrahil was waiting for Morwen in the breakfast room late the next morning. She caught him mid yawn while trying to pour himself a cup of coffee.

"Excuse me," he drawled. "Coffee?"

"Please."

She accepted a mug from him and took her seat at the table. "No Aranel yet?"

"Not yet. I'm surprised to see you up already. Toast?"

"No, thank you." She wrapped her fingers around the steaming coffee and breathed in the nutty fragrance. It was expensive and hard to come by, so she never kept any in the valley. "I couldn't sleep."

He shrugged. "That's going around," he dryly. "Too many late night adventures."

Aranel had not died on the curb or in her bed - or at all, in fact. This information Morwen had this first hand from Adrahil upon her arrival in the house in the early hours of the morning when she had walked into the middle of a family dispute. Lord Belehir was insisting that his wife would go home and Adrahil was insisting that she certainly wouldn't stay. In the midst of this, Lady Rían insisted she would see her daughter.

Morwen was only grateful that she and Prince Thengel had decided to part ways on the doorstep, so that he wasn't also a witness to the melodrama. It was plain that everyone inside the house had forgotten all about her while pursuing their own ends. Morwen could tell by the way each of them gaped when the servant led her in.

Her appearance had a somewhat diffusing effect on the trio, which she decided was fortunate. Lady Rían, perhaps realizing her error and not being able to withstand the renewed energy behind her son-in-law's glare, had allowed her husband to escort her out of the house shortly after Morwen entered it. She heard the full account of the evening from Adrahil while they trudged up to their bedrooms. That felt far too recent for Morwen's liking, but it was very nearly noon.

"I am sorry you weren't able to see the Steward last night," he said as he buttered a piece for himself. "It wasn't the best evening for you, overall."

"That isn't true," Morwen told him. "I did enjoy many things about last night. And Prince Thengel said he would speak to Turgon for me, so that settles that."

Adrahil stopped mid bite and let the toast dangle in front of his mouth. "He did?"

"He thought it would be faster," she said into her coffee. "Besides, he is a principal witness to Halmir's behavior."

"That may be." Then Adrahil said, "About last night. How did you make it home after we left?"

"Thengel. Again."

"Thengel?" He dropped his toast on the tablecloth jam side down. He spoke as he unstuck the bread from the linen. "Really? Listen, Morwen, before Aranel comes down, I…"

"Before what?" Aranel asked as she entered. She wore her housecoat and her hair fell over her shoulder in a simple braid.

Adrahil shoved the toast in his mouth.

"You're getting crumbs all over your clothes." Aranel poured herself some coffee and gave his appearance a critical scan.

Adrahil brushed himself off. He chewed and then cleared his throat. "Morwen was just telling me an interesting piece of news about Prince Thengel. It would seem that she did not come home on her own last night. Instead, she had a nice long walk with Prince Thengel."

Aranel's puzzled gaze flickered between her husband and her cousin. "What do you mean? Of course Morwen wasn't on her own. She came home with my parents as we arranged. Didn't you Morwen?"

Morwen felt like sinking into the ground. "You were in bed when I came home," was all she said.

Aranel down sat stiffly, a grave expression on her face, and waited.

"Your mother forgot about me, I think. But it's all right," Morwen spoke quickly as Aranel's eyes rounded. "Lady Idhren suggested Prince Thengel walk me back and look — I'm just fine."

"Mother left you behind. Lady Idhren sent you home with the Prince." She crumpled a napkin in her hands, the only sign of her foundering temper. "I see."

"I'm sure Lady Rían was just distracted by her worry for you," Morwen told her apologetically.

"I am aware of that, Morwen." Aranel sipped her coffee, thinking. "And what are your thoughts on this, Adrahil?"

"About your mother?"

"About the inconvenience this caused for Prince Thengel."

Morwen started to protest, but they weren't paying her any attention.

"Oh, he's making this very easy for me," Adrahil congratulated himself. "He's to speak to Turgon, too."

"And what are _you_ going to do?" Aranel pressed.

Adrahil leaned back in his chair. "Me?"

Aranel tapped the tabletop. "Direct action, I think, is what we need here. I've thought about it after we missed our opportunity last night. You should ride back to Lossarnach and tell Halmir his behavior will not be tolerated any further or else Belfalas will have something to say about his conduct." She frowned. "And to prove that my advice is sound, I am going to follow it to my mother's house today. Last night will not repeat itself."

Adrahil looked concerned. "If that's what you think is best - about your mother, I mean."

"I do. I should have done it a year ago." She gave Morwen a smile. "You see, your coming here and delaying our trip has done us some good. Adrahil and I were pretending that if we slipped out of the city and hid in Dol Amroth, that it would solve things with my overbearing mother. Well, reality has come home to roost. Next it's going to be your turn to try it on Halmir."

"But I was always direct with Halmir," Morwen said, feeling defensive. She couldn't help it if he refused to listen. "Beldir said that this is a difficult case because Halmir feels he has some rights. What if he doesn't listen to Adrahil either?"

"Then you will come with us to Dol Amroth," Aranel said as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"That's all very well for me, but what about my household? I'm responsible to them."

Would Halmir keep any of them on? Would they want to stay? Where would they go? She thought of poor Hareth, who was born in Ithilien in the days when the rangers were actively clearing the forest. She'd already lost one home and now to have another one disappear.

Then Morwen remembered Guthere. Maybe it wouldn't be so difficult a change for Hareth. Though what her son, Gundor, would think, Morwen didn't know.

Maybe Gildis would come with her? She had followed Hirwen from Arnach, after all. Ioneth would find some goat herder or woodcutter to marry.

What to do with Beldir? Halmir's plans would hit him the hardest. She couldn't see Halmir tolerating the overseer, and vice versa. And with the orchard compromised, what would he have to do? Adrahil had looked into her affairs and she had some money that she could use to help them, but not much was left when she considered the cost of setting up a new life for herself far away in Belfalas.

"Don't worry. We'll think of something," Adrahil assured her. "First, let's hear what the Steward has to say. Then I'll come to Lossarnach like Aranel suggests."

"What about Aranel?"

Aranel winked at Morwen. "I've lived in Minas Tirith without Adrahil for twenty-four years," she answered. "I think I can manage a week or two without him."

"My bloom must be fading if that's the case."

"Not a bit."

Adrahil smiled fondly at Aranel as he rose from his seat. "Well, if I'm to go to Lossarnach, I'd better see to some business on the Harlond and write to my father," he told them. "I'll see you both at dinner."

After he left them alone, Aranel helped herself to some fruit and toast. "So, Morwen, aside from being neglected by your friends and relations, how did you pass the evening? Adrahil said you were dancing with Prince Thengel when we left. It seems he is the theme of the night."

"No," said Morwen. A thought struck her. "We never seem to dance."

Aranel set down the butter knife she was using and looked at Morwen carefully. "Then what did you do?"

Morwen related the events of the evening. Aranel seemed stuck on the part where they had left Merethrond together, spiriting away into Lady Idhren's garden.

"He spent a week under my roof, Aranel. I don't see why one evening conferring together in private should raise any concern about my conduct – or his." Though she tried to appreciate it, Morwen felt her cousins' protectiveness beginning to stifle her - particularly after Thengel had challenged her yielding behavior the night before.

"I'm not certain if I should be thankful or concerned, Morwen," Aranel said lightly as she poured more coffee. "I do believe you are taking your opportunities for granted."

"I am not. He offered to speak to Steward Turgon for me. That's a positive stride, I think."

Aranel set down her coffee cup, staring down into it. She opened her mouth and then quickly shut it again. Then she scrutinized the butter dish. Finally, she shook her head and offered Morwen a piece of toast.

"Have I do something wrong?" Morwen asked.

"No," Aranel answered wearily. "I don't think you could do anything wrong if you wanted to. That's your fatal flaw."

"I don't understand."

"Some women might have taken advantage of a nice, long walk in a moonlit night with a young ma." She added, "I've been subtle with you about the degree of your friendship with Prince Thengel. Do you think of him as anything other than your messenger to the Steward?"

Morwen bristled at the note of censure she detected in Aranel's voice. "He is a friend." When Aranel gave her a dissatisfied look, Morwen added, "And he offered his help. I didn't ask for it."

"He seems quite gallant toward you, Morwen. There are some who might also call him handsome. And you are certainly very pretty. Two strong inducements toward, you know, _interest_."

"Aranel, you are mistaking kindness for something else," Morwen warned her. This was beginning to feel suspiciously like some of the conversations she had had with Halmir. She thought he was paranoid. But if Aranel thought so? She wanted to tuck these thoughts away for later. It was like receiving a letter. She recognized with interest the hand that had written the address, but she wasn't ready to read the contents.

"I would have to observe you together to really know. It could be possible. Don't you like him?"

Morwen considered this. Prince Thengel was certainly a change from the standard tall, dark Gondorians.

"I like his eyes," she decided. "He is kind and he has seen and done a great deal, which makes him interesting."

"What about, I don't know, his crown?"

"He wasn't wearing one," Morwen muttered.

Aranel looked her in the eyes. Morwen felt a challenge in them. "He will one day. It's a little difficult to separate the man from the mantle."

"I suppose so." Morwen rolled some breadcrumbs that had fallen onto the table with her finger while she thought about it. "He doesn't make a show of it. He prefers for people to think of him as Ecthelion's lieutenant rather than the crown prince of Rohan."

"How do you know?"

Morwen shrugged. "It's more a feeling. When we were together in Lossarnach, he barely spoke of his home. The way he cuts his hair, the way he dresses, is all very Gondorian in style. Haven't you noticed? He looks very little like his men, except in coloring, which is odd, because I think he's very fond of Cenhelm and Thurstan and Guthere. He makes himself appear other to them."

"He has spent half his life in Gondor. It would be hard for him not to assimilate after so long."

Morwen considered Aranel's observations. She had thought the same when they were walking to Anorian's well. Home was an important thing. What would it do to a person who could never settle in somewhere? He might have been born the Prince of Rohan, but now she suspected events had shaped him into a person nobody had expected.

"Well, it looks like you'll be staying with us a little while longer," said Aranel, letting the subject of the Prince drop. "What do you want to do today? I would invite you to come to my mother's but I don't think either of us really want that, given the topic of discussion."

Morwen suppressed a shudder. She didn't want to see Rían in high dudgeon while her daughter asserted her rights as a full-grown woman. And Morwen had business of her own to tend to.

"I want to visit the Warden. Nanneth sent me with instructions for replenishing her stock and I have yet to see my parents' memorial in the garden."

Aranel nodded. "Very well. I'll accompany you there on my way to my mother's once I've dressed."

…

Morwen and Aranel parted company on the greensward encircling the Houses of Healing. Four fair towers rose in a quad and were enclosed by shining white walls; which concealed the only beauty the city had to boast, in Morwen's opinion, a thriving, well-tended garden. The shadow of decay that covered Minas Tirith hadn't fallen where so much green dwelled.

An attendant greeted her when she stepped into the propylaeum connecting the foremost towers. He wore the traditional gray garb associated with the Houses and spoke in a hushed tone.

"Would you please inform the Warden that I have arrived?"

The attendant gave her a benign smile. "Is the Warden expecting you, my lady?"

"No, but he will want to see me. Tell him it's Morwen of Lossarnach. I have a list of supplies. Would you give it to him?"

"I will take it to him myself, Lady Morwen," he said, bending at the waist. "Will you wait in the atrium?"

"Thank you, I'll wait in the garden."

The attendant retreated down the line of columns into the northwest tower. When he was gone, Morwen retraced her memory down flagstone paths southward toward the door leading to the outer wall. An open arcade of white stone butted up to the back of the south-facing towers and framed the garden. Morwen breathed deeply as she stepped inside. She loved the well-tended paths and the cool quiet that pervaded the shaded lawns. Healing would come to anyone here, she thought, given time.

Silence, save for the rustle of leaves in a breeze or the twitter of a bird, lay over the grounds like a soothing blanket. Morwen passed a few of the residents who were able to enjoy the garden. They sat deep in thought on benches or asleep in their chairs. She moved quietly around the clear pools that had tempted her as a child, toward the terraced beds that rose to the top of the wall. Nobody minded her.

Her parents' memorial trees were planted in the southern quadrant where the benefits of light and air were the best, just as the Warden had promised Morwen in his letters last year. A simple cairn of sea-smoothed stones from Belfalas's shores sat between the trees, marking the bed's significance. That had been Adrahil's touch.

Morwen squinted against the prickling behind her eyes. The cairn touched her more than she realized it would. Her memories of a long ago trip to Dol Amroth were mere shadows of childhood, but the fief had been a part of her father's identity.

Seeing the trees felt like seeing her own children. Morwen grew warm with affection at the sight of their light new leaves and clean bark. The gardeners had taken great care with them and the dark soil beneath their bases felt cool and well-watered.

"There you are, child, fingers deep in the mud again."

Morwen rose to her feet to greet the Warden with a little laugh at herself. He was broad man with a deep chest and silver hair tied back in a queue. His robes, despite the fashion, did not sweep the ground. One never knew what might be on the floor of the Houses.

She felt surprised to see he had a companion with him - none other than Lord Daeron. He smiled at her quizzically, providing her with a handkerchief to wipe her hands.

"What a pleasant surprise."

"Have you met Lord Daeron, my child?"

"We have," he answered for her. "Ours is a short acquaintance, but I hope we can remedy that."

Morwen felt momentarily at a loss at seeing him. She wanted to apologize, but didn't know how in front of the Warden.

"I hope so," she said lamely.

The Warden rocked back on his heels, a habit Morwen was familiar with. "Good, well, that saves me an introduction. I have your list from Nanneth, my dear. It will take a little time to put everything together. Where shall I instruct my steward to send the parcels?"

"To Prince Angelimir's home, please."

"Good. Now, how is my dear friend Nanneth?" He turned to Daeron. "We were students together under Warden Ardemin many years ago. She had the greatest gift for healing out of all his pupils. Too bad she wouldn't stay at the Houses. She insisted on returning to her little valleys and flowering vales."

"That is very good for us," Morwen replied. Then she recounted the resent surgery Nanneth had performed on Guthere, or as much of it as she could tell. He seemed very keen on all the parts that made her especially squeamish.

"And all on a plain wooden table with probably less than satisfactory lighting. Most impressive! I wonder if I could persuade her to write it up the procedure for us? Perhaps I should send a student down. I don't suppose you could…." The Warden glanced at the memorial trees and Morwen understood. "Well, listen to me carrying on. This must be the first time you've seen your apple trees since last summer." He shook his head. "Terrible loss."

"I think my parents would be pleased with them," she assured him. "They look healthy and happy."

"Happy? How can you tell?" Lord Daeron asked.

Morwen blinked at him in surprise. She had never had to vocalize it before. "Well, look at how the leaves and branches just reach up to the sun like nothing could be more delightful."

He squinted at the trees. "Yes, I see."

She didn't think he did, but allowed it to pass.

"Forgive me if I sound scheming, child," the Warden broke in. "But since we're talking of your parents, I want to mention a special project we've begun in partnership with the Archives that I spoke to Randir about some two years ago. I've just been telling Daeron all about it."

"Oh? I don't recall my father mentioning any special project."

"Back then we had hardly begun. Let me see, it's been three years since Master Uldor approached me about the possibility of a seed library. We are in the preliminary stages now."

"What is a seed library?" Morwen asked.

"The seed library is quite simple in concept. It has two goals. One is to preserve Gondor's native plants. Two, we wish to educate our citizens about the cultivation and preservation of our native flora, with a few special items included, such as your Hyarnustar Gold hybrid. It is one of the few plant samples we have with any ancestry from Númenórean flora. I convinced your father to provide us with seedlings from your orchard. I had hoped to show him the results this year, but alas."

"He never told me," she said.

The Warden lifted his upturned palms. "Well, it's still very preliminary, as I said. Maybe the thought nothing would come of it. The cultivation and educational aspect requires more attention and not a little funding. The Houses have limited space for more flowerbeds and of course the gardens are here for the benefit of our patients, not the general public. Under Master Uldor's direction, the Archive's trustees authorized the purchase of a small warehouse in the first circle with the purpose of broadening the scope our project to include a public garden in or near Minas Tirith."

Morwen imagined such a garden. "How wonderful!"

The Warden clasped his hands behind his back, looking pleased. "I would like to show you our progress on the project, but I am afraid you are pressed for time. I am taking Daeron down now. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day will suit you better?"

"I'm curious to see what you've done, especially if you say my father was involved. My afternoon is my own and I may be leaving the city shortly. I will go with you now, if Lord Daeron doesn't mind?"

Daeron bowed. "Nothing would give me more pleasure."

"Good, good," said the Warden. "I'll order a cart."

…

The warehouse resembled a large tool shed. Tools, trays, pots, bags of dirt, were hung on the wall or tucked onto shelves. It smelled musty, of dirt and compost. One wall was covered in banks of wooden drawers, carefully labeled. The Warden called it their seed catalog.

"How have you managed all this?" Daeron asked the Warden.

"Master Uldor found the warehouse and we have shared the expense. Fortunately, most of our stock has been donated and we're only burdened with the cost of supplies and of staffing it. For that we have had to rely on a few sturdy lads and lasses from the Pelennor. We are only now beginning to realize that we from Minas Tirith don't know what we don't know about gardening." He laughed to himself. "But you will judge for yourself if we are having any success."

The Warden led them through to the back of the warehouse, which opened into a desolate courtyard with a water pump at the center. A glass lean-to stood propped against the building. The Warden ushered Morwen inside. Before her, three rows of work benches ran in parallel lines down the length of the green house, one on each side of the wall and another down the middle. Rows of seedlings in wooden trays covered every surface, except for a sink. Even that had a stiff, green stalks poking out over the chipped rim where someone had left a shrub to drain.

Morwen almost cooed. Without waiting for her companions, she swept down the rows and brushed the tops of soft yet spikey green stems of herbs and flowers. Each tray had a simple label. Thymes, sages, marjorams, parsleys, saxifrages, stonecrops, primeroles, anemones, asphodel. The Warden had already recruited help from Ithilien, she gathered.

"Where will they go once they're ready for planting?" she called over her shoulder. "Surely there isn't a plot anywhere within the city walls that could contain as many plants as you plan to have growing once they're ready for the ground."

"That is the question, isn't it? We are looking into buying acreage on the Pelennor."

Morwen concealed her contempt as best she could. "Have you considered other options besides the Pelennor? It seems crowded with farms and homesteads as it is."

"Nothing is decided. The location will depend, of course, on the funding we receive from our donors. That's where Lord Daeron comes in, I'm afraid."

Daeron grinned. "If only you had approached me a year ago. I'm sorry, my friend. I've been funding another project and a second one is out of my power for the time being."

The Warden shrugged, a veteran campaigner when it came to patronage. "I'll take that as a definite maybe. Lady Morwen, perhaps you can help me persuade him?"

Morwen smiled beatifically. "It is a worthy cause, Lord Daeron. One that will have value for generations to come."

Daeron laughed, chagrined. "This isn't playing fair, Warden."

The Warden rocked back and forth on his feet with a pleased look on his face. "I know."

Morwen returned to the Wardens side and held out her hands to him. He took them in his own. "I promise to continue whatever my father began. This city needs more green! We'll see, but I'm sure Lord Daeron will do whatever he can — once it's in his power again."

"Thank you, Lady Morwen," Daeron replied, with relief.

"You've let him off the hook in such a gracious manner that I find I can no longer tease him," said the Warden, shaking his head. "Remind me not to invite you to any of our fundraising dinners. "

"I'm sorry," she laughed. "I'll make it up to you by securing Adrahil's patronage. Who knows? Maybe the Keeper of the Keys will open his purse to you after his son-in-law has."

The Warden grinned. "Well, that would answer very well."

"Now I'm beginning to feel left out," Daeron complained, though his eyes sparkled. "I suppose I could scrape something together for you, Warden."

The Warden's eyebrows shot up into his hairline and he winked at Morwen. "I'll take that as a promise, my lord." They shook hands.

The peel of city bells tolling the hour startled Morwen. She hadn't been able to hear them inside the warehouse. More time had passed since they left the Houses than she realized. "I told Aranel that I would be back for supper."

"I had better take my leave too, before I promise anything else," Daeron quipped. "Allow me to see you home."

"Thank you," she said. "Good afternoon, Warden."

"Good afternoon, child. If you are as successful with the princes of Dol Amroth as you have been with Lord Daeron, I expect we'll break ground by this time next year."

…

The Warden chose to remain behind in the warehouse to speak with the gardeners there, so the cart belonging to the Houses remained for his use. Morwen didn't mind the walk, though the afternoon sun beat down on the unprotected streets. It always felt so much warmer in Minas Tirith than it did in her shaded valley.

In the lower circles, wagons and carts were permitted, carrying cargo and wares throughout the market streets. Pedestrians kept to the raised walks on either side of the broad lanes. They passed the Old Inn and taverns beyond the warehouses that lined the street closest to the first gate. Morwen enjoyed the brief moment of shade inside the gate leading toward the second circle.

"I'm glad we have a chance to talk alone, Lord Daeron."

His eyebrows lifted as he looked down at her. "Yes?"

"I want to apologize for last night. My friend and I did not treat you very well after our dance ended."

"Prince Thengel, you mean?" His voice lowered.

"Yes."

Daeron gave her a pinched smile. "Well, never mind that. Princes will have their way without regard to others. That is their privilege."

She couldn't quite approve of his attitude, but on reflection, it hadn't been wrong.

"And now you've promised the Warden a gift for the Houses when you clearly said you couldn't presently."

He laughed self-deprecatingly. "You shouldn't apologize for my weakness where pretty women are concerned. Besides, it's a happy chance I met you at the Houses. You see I have my own confession to make."

Morwen's heart beat a little faster. "A confession?"

"Yes. As soon as I heard your name announced last night I had to make your acquaintance, Lady Morwen."

"Why?"

"Because of ulterior motives, naturally," he said with a laugh. "I am a friend of your cousin's."

"I know," she replied. "Adrahil introduced us."

"I meant your other cousin. Halmir," he replied with amusement.

"Oh!" Morwen felt as if her entire body had plunged into an icy spring. For a moment, the street seemed to tilt. He reached for her arm.

He looked concerned. "Are you all right? Is it the heat?"

"I'm fine," she breathed. "Let's walk a little faster, please."

"Of course." But he didn't move. "I hope I didn't offend you by joking about ulterior motives."

"Lord Daeron, it's getting late," she insisted.

"I merely wished to say that I've heard that congratulations are in order and I wanted to wish you joy. After all, any friend of Halmir's…"

Morwen stared. "What do you mean?"

Daeron chuckled until he realized she wasn't sharing in the joke. "Good lord, it isn't a secret, is it?" he asked.

"Please tell me what you mean."

"Well," he ran his fingers through the back of his hair, looking ruffled. "Hal confided in me that you and he were soon to be married soon. I have it in writing - though it dates from many weeks ago – before he left for Lossarnach. I thought by now, surely…"

"As a friend, Lord Daeron, please, I must advise you to take anything Halmir says with a grain of salt."

Daeron blinked. Two pink patches appeared high on his cheeks. "Then he hasn't asked you yet? I'm terribly sorry. What a blunder." He laughed. "You'll pardon me, I hope."

"On the contrary, Halmir did ask," she said, growing irritated. "Sort of."

He looked puzzled. "But you said you were not engaged."

"I am not." Couldn't a man get it into his head that he might ask a woman and she might very well refuse him? Their sense of entitlement left her nearly vibrating with anger.

"So," said Daeron slowly, "you aren't considering it?"

Morwen felt icy shards in her stomach. Daeron had gone from impertinent to intrusive. What business was it of his? She didn't have to lay out the details of her life for him just because Halmir had no scruples.

"No."

Was it her imagination or did his hand on her arm feel like a vice?

"And the orchard then? I thought, well."

Oh no, Morwen groaned inwardly, realizing belatedly that this friend of Halmir's was so much more. Daeron hadn't specified what project he was funding during their conversation with the Warden, but it was now painfully obvious she'd fallen into the clutches of one of Halmir's investors. Now this investor was feeling her out for information. Did it worry him that she hadn't accepted Halmir? It ought to. She would not surrender to her cousin's plans and this man might well lose his money if Halmir didn't return it. But ought she to tell Lord Daeron that? No, it would be imprudent. And as great as her anger toward Halmir had grown, she didn't want to purposefully stir up trouble with his friends.

"Nothing has changed in that respect," she said as firmly as possible, despite her shaken nerves.

"Ah, I rely on report, I'm afraid. Halmir, I know, is a rabid advocate for the place. Did he tell you much of his scheme?"

She took a deep breath and answered calmly, "Yes."

"And what did you think?"

She smiled beatifically at him. "Lord Daeron, I thought you invited me to take a walk, not a business meeting?"

He smiled back but it didn't reach his eyes. "Of course. How stupid of me." He let go over her arm.

They passed through the third gate and it seemed that her companion had left any relish he felt for her company and conversation back in the second circle. Frankly, so had she. She felt herself trembling with agitation. Without stepping one foot in the city, Halmir had still managed to catch up with her. Now Morwen's thoughts bent only toward shaking off her cousin's foil. She watched his profile, trying to gauge his mood.

Daeron's eyes bored straight ahead. His lips had relaxed into a resting frown, but his nostrils flared now and again as if a passing thought grated his senses. She believed she could read his mind, especially if his plans and finances were tied up with Halmir. Morwen would have felt sorry for him if fear wasn't the prevailing emotion she had to contend with.

"Lord Daeron, if you have somewhere else you need to be, I can make it home on my own," she said. "Adrahil thinks I'm his helpless country cousin, but I will be fine."

Lord Daeron got a gleam in his eye. "Helpless country cousin?" He smoothed his tunic down. "Who would think that?"

"It is a foolish notion to think that country folk are helpless in the city, but I believe it's a general prejudice," she told him in a tone as light as she could make it. "Adrahil has never seen me wield an ax or he would feel better about my chances," she continued thoughtfully.

"An ax? You?" He looked her up and down, perhaps wondering where she kept the muscle for it.

She forced a smile. "There's a quaint saying in Imloth Melui that some babies play with rattles, but ours with axes."

"Really? How…um. Well, it's useful for clearing trees."

"Not mine," she said sweetly. "None of my trees are going anywhere."

He finally seemed to get the answer he had waiting for. "Lady Morwen, do you have a notion of when Halmir plans to return to Minas Tirith?" he asked with a calm that belied his interests.

"Not a notion in the world," she said airily. "What he does is no concern of mine."

"I see," Daeron said darkly.

Morwen felt certain that he did see and that gave her a sense of urgency to part company as soon as possible. To think she had thought him handsome! All he had to do was show a little interest in her direction for her to completely let down her guard. She had felt entirely charmed as soon as he'd mentioned her father's poetry. And she'd even thought he felt interested in her. Yet all the while Daeron had been circling her like a dog worrying about the bone its master had left on the table.

"Fool," she grumbled under her breath.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing," she replied.

…

An opportunity to shake off Lord Daeron appeared unexpectedly across the street in the form of a stocky Rohirric warrior. He leaned against the storefront belonging to a leather merchant, his arms crossed over his chest. He was squinting at the sun reflecting off the Tower many circles above with a look of disapproving suspicion she had come to recognize.

"Oh!" she cried. "There's Cenhelm."

"What?" Daeron asked, looking around.

"Thank you for walking me this far. I'll just step across the way to meet him. No need to come along. I'll be all right now. Goodbye!"

She left Daeron standing bewildered on the curb while she dashed between carts to where Cenhelm waited, oblivious to her. He didn't notice her until she appeared right at his elbow. He startled when she spoke.

"Hello, Cenhelm."

Cenhelm cringed when he noticed her. He began to back away with his hands raised as if to ward her off. "Lady Morwen…"

"How nice to see you again." She looked across the street to see Daeron watching them. She slipped her hand around his elbow.

"Er…" Cenhelm's gaze dropped down to her hand then followed her eyes across the street. "Are you well?"

"I will be when that gentleman turns down the street. Ah. There. He's going."

Cenhelm kept looking over his own shoulder at the shop window behind them. He seemed uneasy, though Morwen thought maybe her own feelings were clouding her perception. She let go of his arm once Daeron was completely out of view.

"Good. He's gone. I'll just see myself home. Oh, by the way, Guthere is very well…"

The shop door opened. Cenhelm winced again.

"Cenhelm, who is this?" A large, generously bearded man of Rohirric look had just stepped out of the shop and joined them on the curb. He looked vaguely familiar to her eye but whenever she thought she recognized a feature or expression, it disappeared. And he scrutinized her with equal curiosity. "Well, Cenhelm?"

Cenhelm cleared his throat and said glumly, "Lady Morwen of Lossarnach, my lord."

"Now why does that sound familiar?"

"I told you," Cenhelm said. "We left Guthere in her care."

The man's piercing blue eyes sparked. "Ah! The lady of…" the man roared. Then he blinked. "Why, you must be her younger sister."

Cenhelm looked like he'd bitten a lemon.

Morwen felt herself blushing under this man's skeptical gaze. "I have no sisters, sir. I am the lady of Bar-en-Ferin."

"You mean you run that entire plantation? On your own? At your age?"

Morwen concealed clenched fists in her skirts, bristling at the skepticism in his voice. "Of course. It's hard work better suited to the young," she answered with a hint of steel in her voice. Why was it such a surprise to everyone? "And you are?"

"Forgive me, Lady Morwen. This is Marshal Oswin." Cenhelm paused. "Prince Thengel's uncle and the chief chancellor to the King of the Mark of Rohan, Marshal of Eastmark, and chieftain of Aldburg."

"Oh." Morwen bit the inside of her cheek before she could put her foot in her mouth again.

Oswin bowed deeply. Morwen reciprocated with a faint curtsy. She understood now why he had looked a touch familiar. He was Thengel's relation.

"My nephew was vague about his benefactress," Marshal Oswin said accusingly. "In fact, I hadn't heard about you at all until Thengel fell in with that comrade of his - Abel?"

"Adan. Yes, Prince Thengel was kind enough to recruit Adan to help me after he left."

"He did, did he?" The Marshal puffed out his chest. "Well. That's gratitude for you."

"Yes," she answered slowly. "I'm pleased to meet you, Marshal, but I'm afraid I must get on. My cousins expected me half an hour ago."

"Not on your own?" said the Marshal, looking around for someone who looked like a possible companion.

"Of course," she replied stoutly. "It's not much farther to the sixth circle."

"No, it won't do, Lady Morwen. We're for the sixth circle as well. Allow two old men the pleasure of walking a beautiful young woman home," he said with heavily accented gallantry. "You can tell us more about how Guthere gets on."

Cenhelm's expression seemed to beg her to humor the man. There was something odd about his behavior, but she did need to speak to someone about Guthere eventually. Who better than the Marshal? Morwen gave in. Cenhelm fell behind while the Marshal insisted she take his arm.

"He is healing well," she said, as they started down the street. "I've noticed his energy returning and his headaches have improved - as has his appetite. Lately he's been on a campaign to convert the cook to Rohirric dishes."

"Poor you," the Marshal grunted. "Bland fare, that."

"We had a good stew but the bread was worrisome," she confessed.

"You could brick a house with our bread," Oswin said proudly. "Second heartiest bread only to dwarf bread, so I hear."

Morwen smiled. Oswin reminded her a little of Guthere and that made her feel more comfortable. "That's what he said."

"The trick, you see, is to put it at the bottom of a deep bowl, then ladle the stew on top of it. That softens it down to a nice mush." He eyed her warily. "I don't suppose ladies like you eat mush."

Morwen bit the inside of cheek. What a turn the day had taken. She felt like laughing. "I think we may be converted if Guthere remains much longer."

Marshal Oswin beamed. "That's fine, that's fine. Nothing like hearty food to put meat on your bones."

"Since I've fallen in with you, I hope you won't think I'm impertinent," she said. "But I wondered, Marshal, about the terms of Guthere's service to Prince Thengel."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean when his service to the prince ends, is he free to stay in Gondor or must he return to Rohan?"

If Marshal Oswin seemed surprised by this question, his beard masked it. "It's irregular. None of my men has ever expressed a wish to stay in Gondor, have they Cenhelm?"

"But why?" Cenhelm asked, not masking his surprise one jot.

"I think he and my cook have an understanding."

Cenhelm muttered a string of plosive sounding words in Rohirric under his breath.

"An understanding?" Oswin asked, not grasping the subtext.

Cenhelm spoke to him in Rohirric.

Oswin's eyebrows grew stormy. "Idle fool." Then his expression cleared. "Of course, if a certain event were to occur, I don't see why something couldn't be arranged."

"What event?" Morwen asked.

"Well," Oswin hesitated. "It has been quite some time since Fengel King's counselors have considered the terms of service for Thengel's honor guard. It might be time to revisit them. You know how things change." He looked at her. "Sometimes very quickly."

Yes, she did know.

They passed into the sixth circle. Near the stables golden-headed riders greeted Oswin in their own tongue. They watched her with stern interest and so she bowed her head in greeting.

"Gōd ǣfen."

They all gaped. Cenhelm pinched his nose.

"Did I say it wrong?" she asked, blushing as they passed by the stunned Rohirrim.

"No," Oswin said slowly. "You said it well. That is the surprise. In Gondor, we must speak your language. No one has learned ours."

"Guthere taught us a few words."

When they came within view of Adrahil's home, she raised her free arm and waved to the porter who had stepped out of the gate to greet a courier.

"Ah, there you are, my lady," the porter called. "My mistress was beginning to worry."

Oswin's bushy eyebrows scudded upwards like clouds in a gust. "Is this where you live?"

Morwen had begun to cross the street again. "It's my cousin's home, but I always stay here when I visit Minas Tirith."

"You mean to say that your cousin is Prince Angelimir of Dol Amroth? Well! I won't keep you," he said, although he hadn't released her arm. "Go on in. I'll send Thengel to give our respects to the young Prince and his bride some time, shall I? You would like that?"

"We would all like that."

"You'd like to see him again. You've become good friends, I see," Oswin continued. "Perhaps he could bring Wynflaed, his sister, to meet you." Behind them, Cenhelm choked. "She doesn't know many folk in the city."

Morwen slipped her arm out from under the Marshal's. "Yes, of course. I'm curious to meet Wynflaed." Would she bring her sword?

Oswin smiled magnanimously. "Good, good."

…

Morwen slipped into Aranel's sitting room and slumped against the wall beside the door. The day caught up with her there and she felt tired, hot, and sticky. Aranel glanced up from a card she held in her hand. She looked concerned by Morwen's appearance.

"There you are. Did you have a nice visit with the Warden?" she asked calmly.

Morwen exhaled. "No. I mean, yes. I always like to see the Warden."

"You look exhausted. Sit down and tell me all about it."

Morwen did as she was told, sitting beside Aranel on the couch.

"You were gone for a very long time."

"We went down to the first circle so the Warden could show me a project my father agreed to help with. Lord Daeron was there too."

Aranel looked surprised. "Daeron? You danced with him last night, didn't you?"

Morwen nodded.

"What do you think of him?"

"I liked him very much until I found out he's Halmir's friend." She covered her face with a cushion then let it drop into her lap. "So, now there's a face to at least one of his investors."

Aranel's eyes rounded with interest and worry. "How did you learn this?"

"He told me himself," she said, thrusting the pillow outward. "He congratulated me on my engagement!"

Aranel looked coolly out the window. "Someone is spreading rumors, I see. Perhaps Halmir himself? You weren't alone with Daeron, were you?"

"Not for long. I found Cenhelm nearby and used that as a pretext to part ways."

"Cenhelm?"

"He's the captain of Prince Thengel's honor guard. He and Marshal Oswin - Thengel's uncle - were in the first circle on some business. I came home with them."

Aranel studied Morwen. "Prince Thengel and his people are very obliging to you."

"He is my friend."

"Well, I wonder. It is your business, Morwen. But as one woman to another, I will advise you to consider the implications of allowing him to get caught up in your affairs. You might find events running off without you." Then she handed Morwen the card. "You and I are to have a visitor from one of Prince Thengel's handlers."

Lady Idhren's name was inscribed on the card.

* * *

**Unwieldy Cast of Characters: **

Adan: Lossarnach soldier, friend of Thengel

Adrahil: Prince of Dol Amroth, Morwen's cousin

Angelimir: ruling Prince of Dol Amroth, Adrahil's father

Aranel: Conveniently asthmatic princess of Dol Amroth, Adrahil's wife

Beldir: Morwen's overseer

Belehir: Keeper of the Keys of Gondor (mayor), Aranel's father

Cenhelm: Captain of Thengel's honor guard, man of Rohan

Daeron: Lord from Lebennin, suspiciously handsome person

Denethor: son of Ecthelion, future Steward

Dineth: Aranel's maidservant

Ecthelion: Captain-General of Gondor, future Steward, friend of Thengel's

Egil: Deputy sent from King Bard of Esgaroth

Eriston: Thengel's manservant

Fengel: King of Rohan, Thengel's father, greedy britches

Ferneth: Lady of Lossarnach, Hardang's widow

Forlong: Hardang's infant son

Frár: Dwarf constituent from Erebor

Fritha: Thengel's eldest sister

Gildis: Morwen's housekeeper

Gladhon: Man of Gondor, soldier serving in Thengel's honor guard

Gundor: Morwen's servant, Hareth's son

H's of Lossarnach: Hador, Haldad, Hangelimir, Hathol, o my

Halmir: Morwen's useless cousin

Hardang: Morwen's deceased cousin

Hareth: Morwen's cook

Hirwen: Morwen's mother

Hundor: Morwen's other useless cousin

Ioneth: Morwen's servant

Midhel: local fiber artist, dyer, laundress, etc.

Morwen: The reason we're here today

Nanneth: local healer in Imloth Melui, copious grandchildren

Oswin: Thengel's uncle, a Marshal of the Mark of Rohan

Pengoloth: Master of the Arts in the Archives of Minas Tirith

Randir: Morwen's father

Rían: wife of the Keeper of the Keys of Minas Tirith, Aranel's mother

Rurik: deputy of King Bard of Esgaroth

Teitherion: artist, goat enthusiast

Thengel: the other reason we're here, also crown Prince of Rohan in exile

Thunor: mythic Northman who returns from wandering Lothlorien to find his wife beset by suitors

Thurston: man of Rohan, Thengel's honor guard

Turgon: Ruling Steward of Gondor, father of Ecthelion, fostered Thengel

Warden of the Houses of Healing: exactly what it says on the tin

Wynflaed: Thengel's other sister, a shieldmaiden of Rohan

Wynlaf: Queen of Rohan, Thengel's mother

* * *

[AN: Ooh, look, it's like a Marvel movie! Bonus scene!]

Oswin turned from the gate and began to retrace his steps toward his nephew's home. Cenhelm stumped behind him, looking dourly at the ground.

"She's got a bit of iron in her, that girl."

"Yes, my lord."

Oswin turned a hawk's eye his companion. "You've withheld valuable information from me, Cenhelm."

Cenhelm looked offended. "My reports have been accurate and on topic, Marshal," he groused. "I'm a guard, not a gossip."

"What are Thengel's feelings for that woman, do you think?"

"You must ask Prince Thengel yourself, Marshal."

"Ask him? I have half a mind to tell him! So I shall." He stroked his beard.

"That method has always worked well on the Prince in the past," Cenhelm remarked.

"Well. Hm." Oswin went over the encounter in his mind. "A very pretty, charming, young woman. More of a chick than a hen, but no matter. She runs her own plantation. Quite impressive. And related to Dol Amroth to boot. Why did she never make it onto any of Lady Idhren's lists?"

Cenhelm didn't answer.

"Say, what is her family situation at home?"

Cenhelm gritted his teeth, but then reluctantly said, "Both her parents are dead. She has no brothers or sister."

Oswin rubbed his hands together. "Better and better! No one to interfere, the negotiations will be simple."

"Consider her cousins, my lord."

Oswin snorted. Cousins? No fear. "I must find Wynflaed. Where's she gone today?"

"Wherever she wants, sir."

"Come. It's time to create our strategy. I'll brief Wynflaed later."

"Where are we going, Marshal?"

"To see the Steward!"

Cenhelm thought of the leagues of empty grassland of his homeland. He wished he were in a hole covered by a rock in the middle of it rather than trying to serve two man with sundered purposes. Loyalty had already taken several years off his life this spring alone.


	25. Before the Steward's Chair

The door-wardens allowed Thengel to pass without comment into the cool shadows that always dwelled within the king's hall. The chamberlain met him as he entered the paved passage just as he had the day before to turn Thengel away. Turgon had not been well enough to sit in his chair and would not, therefore, see him.

As Turgon had never once been ill in Thengel's twenty-year sojourn, he found this not a little suspicious. So instead of waiting for a summons, he decided to make a second attempt. If the Steward's chair remained empty today, he'd make a visit to the sick bed. He knew any further delay only played into Halmir's plans.

"Will Lord Turgon see me today?" he asked, already passing the chamberlain on the threshold. His voice and footsteps echoed in the vast emptiness of the corridor.

The man took skipping steps to keep up with the prince. "Yes, my lord. I have been instructed to send you through immediately."

Thengel waved the chamberlain off. "Thank you. I'll see myself in."

Thengel made short work of the passage and barely registered the cool touch of metal on his hand as he pushed through the tall doors leading into the throne room. As he walked between bright shafts of light down the line of kings rendered in stone, he tried not to feel the weight of their marble scrutiny on his back. It had been this way whenever he entered the throne room since he was a boy freshly arrived in Minas Tirith. The kings looked offended that he should walk under their stony noses with so much guilt on his shoulders. An exile.

He didn't know why these representations of long dead kings should take it so personally that he had once threatened bodily violence to another ruler and had been summarily foisted onto their country because of it. They didn't know Fengel King. Otherwise they'd really stick their noses in the air.

"I began to think this day would never come."

Thengel's thoughts jumped to the present. The voice came from the tall, gray man mounted on the Steward's hard, unadorned chair. The white rod of the Stewards rested across his lap. The gold nob glinted whenever it caught the sunlight, which was rare. Beyond the stone chair, steps rose to the high, empty throne and the crownlike canopy. It cast a long shadow. Thengel approached faster, forgetting the kings and their judgment. Death had found them long ago.

Thengel bowed. "What day is that, Lord Turgon?" he asked. His voice echoed through the cavernous space beneath the gold vaulting.

"The day Thengel the Renowned finally put in an appearance on the month of his birth. Should I congratulate you?"

Thengel pressed his lips into a thin, hard line. His foster-father had a gift for irony, which had taken years of cultivation for the plainspoken firebrand to appreciate, let alone interpret.

"How is that, my lord?" he asked.

Steward Turgon studied Thengel through heavily lidded eyes. "Are you not here to announce a betrothal? I did not think you would brave the streets for any other reason."

Thengel stopped before the dais. "No. My uncle's plans have changed this year. I thought you were aware."

Turgon tapped his armrests impatiently. "Not betrothed? How interesting. Reports are circulating that you were seen traversing the streets with your new intended - or is my daughter-in-law not to be trusted?"

Idhren! Thengel might have known.

"I see your repose yesterday allowed you to catch up on idle reports," Thengel said dryly.

"Indeed. And I am feeling much recovered. Thank you for your concern," Turgon groused. "Well? What do you have to say?"

Thengel approached the chair and laid his hand on the armrest. "Allow me to summarily contradict and deny any such matter. Rather, I braved the streets to ask a question."

Turgon harrumphed in ill humor. "I am not an archivist, but you may try me."

Thengel nodded his thanks. "It was brought to my attention that you may have a future audience with Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth. Forgive me for taking advantage of my position in your household to expedite an urgent matter on his family's behalf."

Turgon frowned, but did not outwardly object. "What is this family matter?"

"Lord Randir of Lossarnach served you once, did he not?"

Turgon coughed. "Randir? I did not know you were acquainted with him. He had already _abandoned_ me by the time you arrived."

"I have never met him," Thengel replied. "But I know he associated with you during his lifetime."

The Steward pretended to think. Then he gave Thengel a wry look. "He died before he could finish a genealogy of my mother's line, which greatly inconvenienced me and my posterity – especially since he was doing all those literary favors for Angelimir. Hmph. He was an able orator and scribe in my father's house and served me for a good many years. They called him Randir of Belfalas in those days, until he married Hirwen and she spirited him off to Lossarnach. She stole him right out of my archive. Not the usual place to find husbands, but there's no accounting for taste."

Thengel said, "Morwen, his daughter, still resides in Lossarnach."

Turgon pursed his lips in thought. "The girl comes from a noble line as kin to the princes of Dol Amroth. You cannot fault her pedigree, though her wealth, such as it is, is tied up in land, I understand."

"Yes," said Thengel with a hint of impatience. He wasn't sure which of them was steering the conversation. "Your knowledge of your subjects is far-reaching."

Turgon tapped the armrest again. "I had a moment of study this morning."

Thengel waited with a semblance of patience.

"It is no secret that the woman you deposited on Prince Adrahil's doorstep the other night happened to be Randir's kinswoman. Servants are useful for interesting trivia of that nature." Turgon fixed his keen eyes on Thengel. "As are daughters-in-law."

Thengel swallowed. This wasn't the direction he expected the conversation to go and he certainly hadn't considered how an innocent favor would lead to so much ridiculous speculation.

"Idhren did not tell you I was betrothed."

"Not in so many words, but she looks on it as quite settled after we cobbled together what is known about this young woman." Turgon frowned. "Not a bad catch."

"The rumors are only that, rumors."

"Then why are we discussing this girl if you aren't engaged to marry her? What is she to you?"

The Steward, Thengel knew, operated under a constant level of irritation. It gave the old man momentum. Thengel didn't mind Turgon's frankness, but knew better than to wear out his welcome. He considered how to best lay out his explanation.

"I am in Lady Morwen's debt."

Turgon scowled. "In debt, sir?"

"It is a debt of honor. I led a hunting party on Lady Morwen's estate some weeks ago. My man was injured and she undertook his care and our hospitality. As you know, her estate Bar-en-Ferin was leased to her father, an informal agreement between relatives, which Lord Hardang had extended to Morwen. When he died in your service eight weeks ago valiantly defending Ecthelion's garrison against a siege of orcs, his brother decided to renege."

"What does the brother have to do with it?"

"His brother, Halmir, took his place as regent until Hardang's heir comes of age."

Turgon's brows furrowed while he thought. "Did he? I hadn't heard anything official. And what has this to do with the young woman?"

"While a guest in Lady Morwen's house, Halmir used the informality of the tenement to bully the lady toward accepting his suit."

Something seemed to switch in Turgon's mind. "_He_ means to marry her?"

"Yes."

"Popular young woman." Turgon held his hands up. "It seems a straightforward business. What is your question?"

"Is this behavior condoned in Gondor?"

"What behavior? The movement of property through marriage?"

"Rapacity, my lord."

Turgon's expression darkened and his voice came as a low rumble of thunder. "What do you mean?"

"Halmir installed himself in Imloth Melui and has threatened to strip her of the land if she should refuse to marry him," he told Turgon, allowing frustration to color his voice. "It's the basest coercion."

"No, no, he cannot force her to marry. This is Gondor not Harad. A woman's free consent is of utmost importance." The Steward leaned deeply into his chair and closed his eyes. "He might _persuade_ her, however. Men often must."

Thengel glowered. "And this method of _persuasion_ is acceptable?"

"Methods vary," was all the Steward would say.

Thengel stepped back from the chair and crossed his arms as if to contain his rising temper. He thought he might encounter indifference, but flippancy? He watched Turgon's stonelike expression and thought the man looked asleep.

"In my country, a man who would rob a woman of her livelihood for any reason would be publicly disgraced and cut off from the community. But it has been brought to my attention that not only is this behavior acceptable, but it is protected by law."

"Protected how?" Turgon asked.

"Protected because he has rights but the law hasn't granted her any."

Turgon's eyes flashed open. "She has a contract?"

Thengel deflated. "No."

"My son, I see where this is going," Turgon said with paternal calm. "But you understand that a tenant's complaint over the loss of a verbal agreement cannot stand in the Steward's court."

"But surely the Steward could influence a lord to honor the verbal agreement. Hardang had, up to his death, treated the estate as Morwen's right. Who else will hold Halmir accountable for disregarding his brother's acts if you won't?"

Turgon gave him a disapproving look. "There is nothing to work on. It is his word against hers. Thengel, you are old enough and learned enough to know better - especially as the future king of Rohan. You aren't an idealistic princeling anymore. If I interfere in one fief's internal affairs," he lifted the rod reverently, "abuse my authority - I would have a host of barons crying tyrant. I cannot interfere with a man for _not_ breaking the law and choosing where and with whom to grant his manors."

"But he is using the law to his advantage to force her—"

Turgon raised his stick higher, silencing Thengel. "This Halmir cannot force the young woman to do anything except to accept one consequence over another. She can marry him and keep the land or refuse him and shift for herself elsewhere."

Thengel did know that, but found the answer unsatisfactory. He bowed sharply as he felt the hot tide of anger creeping over him.

"Pardon me, lord. I've troubled your solitude long enough. I will leave you."

Turgon cleared his throat. "Just a moment, if you please," he said. "Before you run off in a fit of spleen…" Thengel tried to protest, but the rod of judgment appeared again. "…As is your habit to this day despite your advancing years, let me remind you of my place in the grand scheme of Gondor."

Thengel held his ground and forced himself to listen.

"My province extends to the wellbeing of the realm-at-large in the absence of the king, not with the individual management of every farm in this benighted country. That is the province of the Gondor's barons and their deputies. If this lady's romantic entanglements somehow interfered with our hedge of protection to the east and south, that might be another matter."

Thengel eyes kindled. "Odd you should say so, my lord. As it happens, the gentleman and his brother did show a certain disgust for service in Captain Ecthelion's army, despite the tribute of knights due to the throne."

Turgon seemed to spark on the new information Thengel offered as fuel. "Too good for Gondor, are they?"

"Five score axemen are camped on Lady Morwen's lawn at this moment, doing nothing but eat and aggravate the household."

"A hundred axemen?" Turgon's eyes could have boiled the rapscallions alive with his eyes if only they were present. "Idle?"

"Give or take, that's an éored," Thengel mused as he brushed dust off his sleeve. "A waste after what we've learned from Egil and Frár. Those axes could be put to use splitting orc necks instead of rusting in the open air."

Turgon sat, puckered in silence and a darkening mood. Finally, he seemed to get the better of himself and said, "These young men don't know what they owe to the throne. I shall see that this is remedied." Turgon slashed the air with his finger. "But don't suppose, Thengel, that you can annoy me into acting for the young woman. This waste of fighting men is one matter, but the lease is another. I cannot interfere directly on the lady's behalf."

Thengel choked down his frustration. "You could find a better use for the men, at least. Halmir might be less persuasive without his henchmen."

"That is for Ecthelion to decide."

"What about Halmir's peers? Can he risk the disgust of the princes and lords of other fiefs? Prince Angelimir won't be best pleased to find his kinswoman displaced."

Turgon considered this point with a sour expression. "Lossarnach is hedged behind the protection of Minas Tirith, not exposed to our enemies like Belfalas or Lebennin. Its lord can afford to ruffle feathers. With our dependence on produce and herbs supplying the city and Ecthelion's forces, we need Lossarnach's favor more than he needs ours." His voice was sharp and grim. "Which of course I am telling you in strict confidence."

"There has to be something you can do," Thengel pleaded. "Randir was your friend."

"My authority as Steward has its limits within the law, Thengel, which friendship does not override," he said with some gravitas as he rose from his chair and descended the step. His stick sent staccato claps echoing down the marble room. "We exist because of the law, not the other way around. Her father was a good friend of mine, but not entirely practical. I cannot act for her if he didn't."

Thengel searched Turgon's face but found nothing there to work on. "In Rohan the community exists because of its king. He unites them, protects them, provides common space, and he guides them," he said. "Or he should. Otherwise what's the point of him?"

Turgon's eyebrows twitched noticeably. "Certainly, a _king_ might do more," he sniffed. "Or perhaps a certain hotspur lieutenant with diplomatic immunity acting independently of his lord."

Thengel blinked. "Pardon?"

Turgon laid a hand on Thengel's shoulder. He had a strong grasp for an elderly man. "If Hotspur should interfere with said regent, well what of it? I speak as you foster-father, you understand, and therefore not on the record."

Thengel's eyes lit up as Turgon's words sunk in. The Steward raised a wizened finger. "I'm not sanctioning anything, mind. But if I were a young…well, youngish man determined not to mind his own business, I might consider a way to persuade the lord away from persuading the lady, if you understand me."

"Persuade?"

Turgon grinned crookedly. "Methods vary."

Thengel stood silent, lost in thought as possibilities presented themselves while Turgon resumed his seat. The Steward had handed him a wild card and yet he knew that the Steward's grace had its limits. So far, Thengel had managed to live within that circle of grace all the years he had dwelled in Gondor, despite moments of spleen and recklessness. It would be a simple matter to overstep the bounds, but less simple to return. A delicate matter.

"Incidentally," said Turgon, breaking into Thengel's thoughts. "Why the interest in this lady's misfortunes?"

Thengel turned reticent. "Her story reminds me of my own and I pity her."

"Pity?" Turgon looked like he had tasted vinegar. "You interrupted my brief solitude for pity?"

Thengel gave him a blank look. "Is there a more satisfactory motive, father?"

"There is," Turgon replied. "And one method that neither of us has mentioned to any avail."

"What method?"

"Marry her yourself if you're going to stick your oar in her business," The Steward groused with a crack of his stick on the marble floor.

Thengel cringed as the sound knocked his eardrums. "We will not discuss that please."

"You may not wish to discuss it, but all of Minas Tirith is.

"What would that solve? Halmir would still claim the land. That's all she wants."

"Yes, but by the Valar, it would shut up those irritating-and-highly-official dossiers from your uncle - not to mention the - I don't know what you would call it other than a _sortie_ of camp followers each spring! I can't abide to hear tell of every eligible Æthelthryth from Aldburg to Isengard who loves the color green and long rides on the Wold while you hide out in some remote corner of my kingdom."

Thengel cleared his throat. "There aren't any women west of Isen, my lord, except among the Dunlendings. They are reputed to be…haggish."

Lord Turgon rested the rod across his knees. "You are growing tedious, my son."

Thengel bowed. "Forgive me, father." Then rising, "Before I go, allow me to clarify. I have your leave to interfere?"

Turgon pursed his lips. Then he said, "Allow an old statesman to rephrase - in fact, to borrow a line from your kinsman, _'The king does not permit brawls in his house…but men are freer outside.'" _

For the first time, Thengel grinned. "Ah. I can hardly gainsay Helm Hammerhand."

"The man had a talent for certain turns of phrase one can appreciate," Turgon replied. "I trust you can take the hint."

"I'll do my best."

Thengel retreated from the throne room, his mind already turning over possible plans. He had permission, now he needed inspiration.

…

Turgon frowned at his adoptive son's back until it disappeared behind the closed doors of his - that is, the king's hall. He rolled his eyes toward the vaulted ceiling, leisurely, as he enjoyed the few moments of unfiltered expression allowed to him in these days of diplomacy. It felt good, like stretching after a long sleep.

A side door belonging to the Steward's antechamber opened on nearly silent hinges, but Turgon heard it. Marshal Oswin entered from where he had been listening as best he could from within.

"Are you satisfied?" Turgon asked.

"Perfectly. From what I could here. That was a good touch at the end, Lord Steward, reciting Helm Hammerhand. I congratulate you."

Turgon sniffed. "I thought so myself."

"So, did he admit to being in love with the girl?"

"Marshal, not in so many words, but if your nephew isn't hooked then I'm an orc," Turgon muttered. "What else would induce a man to pick a fight he's very likely to lose?"

The graven kings seemed to agree, but Oswin bristled.

"Lose? The sons of Eorl do not lose. Especially not to paltry little lordling brutes."

Turgon looked on Fengel's chancellor with some surprise. "Mark my words, Marshal, he will have to lose if he's to make this woman a princess of Rohan."

Oswin tucked his thumbs into his belt. "Well, but…"

"How else will she willingly leave when she is so determined to keep the property? Have you thought on that?"

Oswin glowered at the one broken spoke in the wheel of his new plan. He hadn't counted on the girl digging in her heels. She had seemed so obliging yesterday.

"Why wouldn't she want to leave? What's wrong with the Riddermark, I ask you?"

Turgon pinched the bridge of his nose. "Nothing, Marshal. There's nothing wrong with Rohan. _We are all very fond of Rohan._ Only it's a very long way away. I said Thengel wants her. We do not know the lady's feelings. She may not like him as much as he likes her."

"Not like him?" Oswin stormed. "What's wrong with him?"

"Calm yourself, Marshal Oswin. I only said we do not yet know one way or the other. I can see plain as plain that Thengel doesn't know either or he wouldn't refuse to speak of it. Perhaps he hasn't admitted it to himself either. But it is clear she doesn't mind his company. Should she share his feelings, well, that would simplify the matter. Until then, circumstances might help persuade her to think favorably on a change of scenery."

"How could she help it? A handsome, strapping warrior like that with all his own teeth in his head? And Thengel the future king of the Mark? She'll have no small share of the treasure and the run of Meduseld. And such horses as she's never seen the like in this country." Oswin began pacing the floor at the Steward's feet, arms akimbo with his thumbs still in his belt. Emotions were messy, uncooperative things. "What is the matter with these Gondorian women? Is she waiting for some elven sorcerer to make her a better offer?"

"When you paint such a picture one can hardly wonder, my friend," Turgon answered dryly. "Roll out the wedding announcements, by all means."

"Good. Excellent." Oswin stroked his beard as he congratulated himself on a job nearly well done. "I shall put Wynflaed on it immediately."

Turgon raised a gnarled finger. "That is precisely what you must not do," he replied. "My daughter-in-law warned against it and I agree with her."

Oswin stopped stroking his beard and glowered. "What? But my nephew is a stubborn idiot."

"I am well aware."

Oswin began to pace again. "He'll never come around on his own. Someone has to work on the girl. It'll be another twenty years if left to his own devices."

"Patience, Marshal." Turgon tapped his nose.

"The Rohirrim don't have much of that in ready supply."

"Well I know it," said Turgon tartly. "Hotspur was in my charge these last twenty years, you will recall."

Oswin bristled at this reminder, but wisely held his tongue.

"Thengel will make himself indispensible to the young woman all on his own if we leave him be. Mark my words — I'll be sure to remind you of them at the wedding next year."

"Next year? Why not next month?" Oswin said with a wave of his hand.

Turgon massaged his wrinkly forehead. "Because he hasn't asked her yet, that's why. These things take time. There are formalities. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We haven't even discussed her dowry yet."

"Has she got one?"

"On that score, you'll find Gondor will remember Thengel's service with a good deal of generosity. But that is neither here nor there yet. The engagement may take time to come about and then there will be preparations to consider."

"When a thing needs doing, get it done. We don't share your customs. Long engagements only makes young people fiddly."

Fiddly? Turgon winced, as if such youthful impetuosity had long passed from his memory. "When the time comes, I am sure we can negotiate the length of engagement down to say, nine months."

"Three months."

Turgon struck the floor with his stick. "Three months! Don't be absurd." Nobody could live at that speed!

"Thengel's no spring chicken, you know. And if you hadn't allowed him to keep running around in the woods this might have been taken care of long ago."

Turgon frowned. Oswin and he agreed on that point, at least, though it little pleased the Steward to admit how they had taken advantage of receiving the heir or Rohan.

"All right. Six months. But no less! You don't want people's tongues wagging."

Oswin shrugged. "Let them wag. Nobody in Rohan will understand them anyway."

As the Marshal retreated, Turgon allowed himself the pleasure of a long sigh. He was getting too old. If it wasn't for the regard he felt for his old friend Randir, he would hide in his tower and make Ecthelion deal with this. But it was too delicate a situation for his martial-minded scamp of a son.

That he had purposefully deceived Thengel was a stroke of genius he couldn't trust to Ecthelion. He certainly intended to interfere on the lady's behalf, but not in the way Thengel thought he should. Randir, loved by all, had been an excellent scholar but rather absentminded in practical matters. This union was exactly what Turgon would like to see for his old friend's daughter. She might not know that the Steward kept her in his sights since her father's passing, but he had. And he preferred to keep her in the dark and work by proxy.

What a windfall that Thengel had come across Morwen and would bear the brunt of the hard work of securing Morwen's future. Very convenient. It would save Turgon the trouble and repay him for raising and equipping the heir of Rohan.

Not that he would confess this motivation to Marshal Oswin, either. Let the man think that this union worked all in Rohan's favor. They were a suspicious lot, the Rohirrim.

And if the union worked out in Gondor's favor on a diplomatic level, so be it. Turgon could satisfy his personal motives and justify himself to his son. Everything satisfied him. And Idhren would make sure all the pieces were in the right place.

Only the princes of Dol Amroth remained. The last obstacle. Turgon felt he could persuade Prince Adrahil to cooperate.

…

AN: The hardest part about writing this chapter was the intrusive voice of Nanny Ogg. ;)

O, the steward's staff had a knob on the end.  
It does! It does!  
O, the steward's staff has a knob on the end.  
It does!  
O, the steward's staff has a knob on the end  
And the steward's staff is the steward's friend.  
It is! It is!


End file.
